


Out of Sight

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Series: before there was red vs. blue there was project freelancer [13]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Car Chases, F/M, Homelessness, M/M, Multi, Organized Crime, Post-PFL, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Threesome, even so half the pairings i tagged aren't even necessarily romantic or sexual, everyone wants to bang york, it's canon, that being said..., that's not the point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 03:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 48,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3962146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is tough when you're an ex-infiltrations expert on the run from Project Freelancer (or what's left of it, anyway). When York gets hired to help steal some stolen goods, he assumes it's just going to be another in-and-out, get paid and go kind of deal. Which goes to show you should never assume anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How's the Job Market Out There?

**Author's Note:**

> If you're the kind of person who likes to listen to music while reading, I recommend the [Mad Max soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I2ZIgDsQifs&index=1&list=PLicF65bUXEi_WcwkVEgeBgpOccbZiEpau) or [this playlist](http://8tracks.com/royalheather/run-boy-run) for this fic.

_He stumbles out of the wreckage of the ship, coughing, D hissing statistics in his ear. The air swirls with snow, jagged mountains towering around them. On the edge of the cliff York sees them, two figures, one monstrous in white armor, the other turquoise and held up by her throat –_

_“NO!” shouts York, scrambling towards them, struggling to get his footing. His boots slip in the mushy snow, D mapping the quickest trajectory for him. As he nears he can see Carolina’s helmet is off, her red hair whipping in the wind, and there’s blood on the snow –_

_With a roar York crashes into Maine, sending all three of them toppling to the ground. Carolina yells and swings a kick into Maine’s stomach, but he just takes it with a grunt. York scrabbles for a hold on Maine –_ His armor is weakest under the left armpit _, says D_ – _but Maine’s fingers hook under York’s helmet, tearing it off, and there’s a split second where York registers the biting cold on his skin before Maine’s fist connects with his temple and blinding pain shatters through his skull._

_“You son of a bitch!” yells Carolina, and York hears scuffling and the crunch of impact and armor scraping against armor._ I am administering pain medication, thankfully you did not suffer a severe concussion, _D rattles off –_

_Groaning, York opens his eyes to see Maine crouched over Carolina with her head pinned in the crook of his arm. He meets her eyes just in time to catch the flash of fear before Maine grips tight and_ twists _–_

York wakes with a gasp, soaked in cold sweat, and it’s dark and stinks of garbage and he can’t remember where he is. _D –_

_I’m right here._

Breathing slowly, York lays back and stares up at the patch of night sky visible beyond the skyscrapers. That’s right, he’s in an alleyway deep in the heart of Voi, and it stinks because he’s curled up behind a dumpster, using cardboard boxes as a pillow. _Hey, D, what time is it?_

_Four fifty-seven a.m._

_Shit_. Not enough time to try and fall back asleep before the sun rises. Yawning, York sits up, sliding a hand under his helmet to scratch his stubbled jaw. Not enough time to sleep, and at least an hour to kill before even the least respectable grub joints open for business. _Man, I would kill for an Egg McMuffin right about now…_

_There are no McDonald’s in this city, but I am sure I could locate an establishment that serves a similar item._

_Nah, not important._ Even in the dead of night it’s warm and muggy; Voi is steamy year round. _But if we happen to pass by one, let me know._

_Of course._

Truth be told, it’s not food that York needs – well, yes, it is, that’s part of the problem – but it’s not the solution. He needs a job.

\--

Voi is a tough city, tough enough that York can walk the streets in his armor and not get too many strange looks. It also means he can get the kind of work where no one asks too many questions, and his combat abilities and slightly more dubious lockpicking skills are actually wanted. Better yet, most of the people who hire him don’t care where he’s from or how he does what he does, although he’s sure that if any of them actually know about D they’ll slit York’s throat and have D’s chip out and to the highest bidder faster than York can say _Mother of Invention_. Hell, if any of them even knew that he was walking around with Freelancer equipment and armor he’d be dead and they’d be rich.

So he plays it safe, just to be sure. Scrapes off any Freelancer insignia on his armor the first chance he gets. His rifle he trades in for a couple of less conspicuous and equally as effective pistols. Stops having conversations out loud with D, who is just as unwilling to be ripped away from York and no longer projects holographically. There are nights, too many nights, when it’s the two of them talking back and forth in York’s head and he doesn’t even know whose words are whose.

It’s handy, though, having a second person to talk to without ever having to speak a word.

_What do you think of these two, D?_

It’s a seedy mob boss, one of dozens fighting for a rung on the ladder, and his usual beefy bodyguard. D gives them the lookover, analyzing cheap fabric cleaned too many times, heavy jewelry polished too brightly. _No different than our usual clientele._

“So you’re this Foxtrot fellow, huh?” says Mob Boss. “Thought you’d be taller.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” says York.

“You gonna take off the helmet?”

York makes a show of considering, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms. “Nah.”

It’s a small office above a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and the smell of greasy takeout wafting up towards them makes York’s stomach growl. Mob Boss is seated behind the desk, Beefy Bodyguard standing behind him. The guy – Mob Boss – is like a poor caricature of the stereotype, right down to the loudly-printed shirt, the paunch, the male-pattern balding. He’s even got a crappy plastic plant and a trashy pinup calendar. “Well,” says Mob Boss. “Gotta be honest, I don’t like doing business with a guy who won’t show his face.”

York doesn’t let anyone see his face now. The eye’s enough of a distinguishing feature, even if whatever’s left of PFL wasn’t using facial recognition software on every damn camera in the city. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s a professional rule. I don’t take the helmet off.”

“Hunh.” Mob Boss leans back in his chair. Beefy Bodyguard behind him is just as much of a character, neck wider than his shaved head and fists the size and color of hams. Right now he’s glowering dully at York like an irritable bull.

_Left ear looks to have been fractured quite badly at some point,_ says D. _It was treated, but poorly._ There’s a tiny digital blink in York’s head, the equivalent of D thinking. _I suspect the boss has a cocaine habit._

_Jeez, could these guys get any more stereotypical?_

_Well –_

_Don’t answer that._

“Don’t say much, do you?” says Mob Boss.

York shrugs. “Gotta be careful with my words. Loose lips sinks ships, ya know?” Mob Boss frowns at him, and Beefy Bodyguard blinks in confusion, the reference lost on both of them. “Never mind.”

“Anyway.” Mob Boss leans back in his chair and swivels, meaty hands folded over his paunch. “Word is, you’re the best lockpicker this side of New Mombasa.”

“Word’s correct, then.”

“You lookin’ for work?”

“Paid work, yeah.”

_It’s unlikely he’ll pay us much._

_It’s still better than nothing. And nothing’s all we’ve got._

Mob Boss snorts, spreads out his hands. “Whaddaya take me for? Of course it’s paid.”

York shrugs, keeping it casual. “Hey, just covering all my bases. You can never be too careful, you know?”

“Yeah.” That pleases Mob Boss into revealing a gap-toothed smile. “Oh yeah, I know.”

“So what’s the job?”

Mob Boss narrows his eyes at him. “You taking it?”

“The fuck should I know?” says York, leaning back in his chair. “You haven’t told me where I’m breaking in, what I’m stealing, how I’m getting paid – what am I supposed to say yes for? Your pretty face?”

Beefy Bodyguard grunts, taking a step forward, but Mob Boss puts a hand on his arm. “Naw, it’s all right,” he says. “It’s just, this is real sensitive intel, ya know? Can’t be telling it to just anyone.”

“Don’t worry,” says York. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

D doesn’t laugh, really, but he makes a tinny static sort of sound that means the same thing. At least, York thinks it does. D’s still figuring out any form of humor that isn’t sarcasm.

“Well,” says Mob Boss, “without revealing too many company secrets… It’s a high-security warehouse. There’s some goods in there that belongs to me, only the sonofabitch I loaned ‘em to for safekeeping won’t fucking give them back.”

_Hey, D, you believe this shit?_

_Not particularly._

“What kind of goods?”

“Not your business,” says Mob Boss. “I got my own boys to get everything out, I just need someone to pick the locks and get through the security protocols. And that’s you.”

“How much are you paying?”

Mob Boss purses his lips, considering. “Two thousand credits.”

It’s better than the last couple of jobs York’s had. “Three thousand.”

“Twenty-three hundred.”

“Twenty-seven hundred.”

“Twenty-five hundred, and my word that if anything goes south and the fuzz nab you, I’ll get you.”

The last is meaningless – even if York trusted him to keep his word, the second he’s arrested he’s a PFL chew toy. “I dunno…” he says.

“What, you don’t take my word as an honest mob boss? Actually, yeah, you’d be pretty dumb if you did. Look, twenty-five hundred, half up front, and if everything goes smooth I’ll throw in something nice from my own personal cut. _Capische_?”

_He just said_ capische. _Like, he actually said that with his own mouth. Totally unironically._

_I heard it just as well as you did, there is no need to inform me._

It’s the best he’s going to get on short notice, and he and D need the money. “All right,” he says. “I’m in.”

“Awesome,” says Mob Boss, flashing his gap-toothed grin. “You wanna leave a number or something with Shiny here, I can call you with the deets once I got everything set up?”

“Nah, I’ll call you,” says York, leaning forward and snagging a greasy business card from the little tray on his desk. P.T. Mendover, Attorney-at-Law. “When’s a good time? Tomorrow?”

“Give me two days,” says Mob Boss. “Sound good to you?”

“Sounds great,” says York. “Now, about the half up-front…”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Mob Boss, pulling out a dusty credit box from under his desk. “You got your chip?”

Reaching into his belt, York pulls out the translucent plastic card – he’ll have to get a new one soon, this one’s pushing a couple months old and he doesn’t keep them longer than that, makes him too easy to track. The balance, visible only to him (and D) flashes up a woeful 0.51 cR. “Here,” he says, handing it over to Mob Boss. Taking it, Mob Boss punches some numbers into the credit box, swipes York’s card.

“There ya go,” he says, handing it back to York. 1250.51 cR, awesome. York resists the temptation to see if he can con him out of a couple hundred extra by saying he got the number wrong. “We all square?”

“Dude, square as dicks.”

\--

York doesn’t waste any time; the second he’s out of Mob Boss’s office he’s heading downstairs and into the restaurant. It’s a standard grab-and-go little place, and _God_ , the smell of deep-fried sweet potato is killing him –

He’s in line, two people away from the counter, when D says _There’s someone behind us_ at the same time someone taps York on the shoulder.

He turns (careful to lead with the right eye) and sees a woman standing there, not looking particularly friendly. Her blond hair is cropped short and slicked smooth, and she’s got a square jaw and full lips. She's wearing a sick beige leather jacket, her outfit’s supplemented by a couple pieces of armor – _Standard army issue,_ says D – and would you look at that, she’s got a robo left hand. _Whole arm,_ corrects D.

“You were talking to Mendover?” she says, with a distinctly French accent. “You’re Foxtrot?”

“Uh…yeah,” says York.

“Good.” She seizes his elbow with her robot hand. “Come with me.”

“But –” Unwilling to cause a scene and draw attention to himself, York lets himself be towed away, out into the street.

_Her adrenaline levels are normal and she shows no signs of undue aggression, without further information I would calculate your chances of injury to be only fifteen-point-four percent._

“You gonna give me a name before you kidnap me?” says York. Blondie scowls at him, pulls them into the closest alley. “Look, I appreciate the attention, but usually I like to take a girl out for drinks or something before –”

“Shut up.”

_Eighteen-point-nine percent._

York resists the temptation to keep running his mouth off; she looks like a punch from her would really hurt, even with his armor. “Okay, sorry,” he says. “What is it?”

“Did you take the deal with Mendover?”

He decides to play dumb, see if he can trick her into revealing something. “What deal?”

She shoves him against the alley wall – _Twenty-four-point-two percent,_ says D. _Might I suggest a different approach towards interacting with her?_

“The breaking into a warehouse deal,” Blondie snaps. “Did he hire you? Did you agree to work for him?”

“Maybe,” York says. “Why?”

Blondie sighs, rolls her eyes. “Because he was lying to you about the circumstances.”

“You mean how I was breaking in to nab some stuff that’s rightfully his?” says York. “A, I kinda figured that, and B, who gives a shit? As long as I get paid I don’t give a damn.”

“We can pay you more,” says Blondie, a calculating expression on her face.

“Who’s ‘we?’ And who the hell are _you_?”

She narrows her eyes, evidently sizing him up. “My name’s Savoyard,” she says. “I work for an organization interested in the goods Mendover hired you to steal, and we’d rather he didn’t get his grubby little fingers all over them.”

“And you want me to break in for you guys instead.”

She shrugs, corner of her mouth pulled up in a smile. “Yes.”

York makes a noncommittal gesture. “I, uh, I dunno…”

“We’ll pay you double whatever he offered.”

“Look, that’s great, that is,” says York. “But Mendover kinda already paid me half of it, and I don’t wanna go back in there and give him his money back and explain why, that’s just awkward…”

Savoyard frowns at him. “You don’t have to give his money back, you know.”

“Huh? Yeah, I know.” York shrugs. “Just want to keep my professional integrity. No one’s going to hire a dishonest lockpicker.”

_Sarcasm?_ asks D.

_Close, more like irony._

_I see._

Meanwhile, Savoyard is staring at him. “This wasn’t your first career choice, was it?” she asks.

Panic bells start ringing in York’s head – _fuck, does she know about PFL, how much does she know –_ “What makes you say that?” he says, casual.

Savoyard gestures to his armor. “Look at the gear you’re wearing. State-of-the-art, very high tech, but it’s all beat to hell. Plus you’ve got a moral code, that doesn’t exactly scream ‘raised to a life of crime’ to me.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m guessing Special Ops, they were going to court-martial you because you had a problem with authority, so you ran off with your armor?”

It’s… uncomfortably close to the truth regarding both parts of his military history. “Maybe,” says York.

“It doesn’t really matter,” she says. Her smile reminds him of a cat, dry and self-assured. “But I would advise you to work with us instead. Mendover is a very small fish in a very, very large pond. You do yourself no favors by sticking with him.”

Everything she’s saying is right, so why does he want to tell her no?

_Human obstinacy?_

_Thanks, D._

“How long do I have to decide?” York asks.

“Twenty-four hours,” says Savoyard. “Meet me here if your answer is yes. Don’t show up otherwise.”

“Got it.”

Savoyard turns and starts walking away – York tries not to ogle, but damn, she’s got some great long legs – when she turns and looks back at him. _Shit, D, did I say that out loud?_

_Negative -_

“The people I work for are very determined to keep those goods from falling into Mendover’s hands,” she says. “If you don’t plan to help us, I would avoid any heists at the warehouse. For your own personal safety.”

“Right,” says York. “I’ll keep that in mind.”


	2. Snakes and Ladders

_He stumbles out of the wreckage of the ship, coughing, D hissing statistics in his ear. The air swirls with snow, jagged mountains towering around them. On the edge of the cliff York sees them, two figures, one monstrous in white armor, the other turquoise and held up by her throat –_

_“NO!” shouts York, scrambling towards them, struggling to get his footing. His boots slip in the mushy snow, D mapping the quickest trajectory for him. As he nears he can see Carolina’s helmet is off, her red hair whipping in the wind, and there’s blood on the snow –_

_He’s too late – he won’t get there in time –_

_York seizes a chunk of snow. “Hey!” he yells, throws it as hard as he can. It explodes into powder against the side of Maine’s helmet. “Put her down!”_

_And Maine just_ looks _at him._

_Suddenly York knows what’s about to happen, Carolina does too, her eyes widen in fear and she’s scrabbling to hold on to Maine, not pry him off, and York starts running again –_

_But Maine lets go._

York wakes, breathing shallow, aware of perspiration on his forehead and back. _York?_ asks D.

 _I’m all right._ It’s a lie, they both know that. _What time is it?_

_Five-oh-two a.m._

\--

Savoyard’s already waiting in the alleyway when he gets there. “So,” she says, looking up from cleaning her robot hand. “Looks like you decided to work with us after all.”

“Yeah, well, I could use the cash,” says York. “And you’re a hell of a lot prettier than Mendover.”

“I should hope so,” she says, eyebrow raised. “Let’s go.”

They walk to the sidewalk, where a grey car is waiting for them. It’s a nice car. A _very_ nice car. Way too nice for a low-level crime racket…

York stops in his tracks. D is rattling off advice at a mile a minute, _York, if we want to keep a low profile I strongly suggest turning away now, no organization at the level we’ve been working with could afford a vehicle of that caliber, if they have that much money they have technology, information, and connections, all of which could lead indirectly or even directly to Project Freelancer –_

 _D, buddy, relax, I got this,_ says York.

_Do you? Because may I remind you that overconfidence is one of your most prominent character flaws –_

_Seriously, D, chill. We’ll handle it._

“Something wrong, Foxtrot?” Savoyard says.

“Nah.”

_Yes._

_I said pipe_ down _, D._

They walk to the car and get in; it’s got a back where the seats face each other and the driver’s separated from them by a partition, which is how York knows it’s _really_ fancy. Savoyard gives the driver directions in French, and off they go.

“So, French, huh?” says York.

“Cote d’Ivoire, actually,” says Savoyard. “American?”

“Yeah.” She does not look impressed, but York kind of expected that. “So where exactly are we headed?”

“A secure location where you will be briefed on the details of your assignment.”

“Huh.” York looks out the window at the buildings rolling by, a definite sense of unease growing within him. Frankly, at this point he’s surprised they didn’t drug him or stick a bag over his head.

“You don’t seem very happy about that,” says Savoyard.

“What? Oh, it’s just I’ve been to a lot of ‘secure locations,’” says York. “Shit never goes well for me when I’m there.”

Savoyard smiles slightly. She’s got a couple of dark scars, one down the side of her right jaw and the other along her left cheekbone. “I can promise you will be in no danger.”

“Yeah, that’s reassuring,” mutters York.

They’re slowly moving towards nicer areas of the city – nice industrial, like where rich people store their yachts and have meetings at night surrounded by black SUVs. _Hey D, where are we?_

_I’m sorry, did you want my input now?_

Fucking sassy AI. _Hey, I’m sorry I snapped at you, all right?_

_Apology accepted._

_Great, now stop throwing a fit._

_I am a computer-generated intelligence, I am incapable of throwing a fit –_

_Yeah, yeah, you keep telling yourself that. Where are we?_

Suddenly there’s a map superimposed on his vision, streets traced out in lime green, a glowing moving dot indicating their position. Okay, so they’re definitely heading towards the shoreline, but like, the nice part of it. The factories around them are large and gleaming, puffing smoke up into the hazy sky. His stomach grumbles unhappily; he hadn’t had a chance to grab breakfast before meeting Savoyard. _D, as soon as we’re done with this we’re headed to the nearest burger joint._

 _The technology in this car is registered to Vauxhall Corporation,_ says D. _Vauxhall is a small subsidiary of Jayce-Jensen Incorporated, a weapons-grade technology development firm owned by Traxus Industries._

_Along with half the other businesses in this city._

_Traxus was a major contributor of funds to Project Freelancer._

York sighs internally, aware Savoyard is watching him intently. _Of fucking course._

_I suggest we leave this venture immediately. There’s no reason to stay –_

_We need the money._

_There is no monetary amount that can compensate for what will happen if Project Freelancer captures us –_

The icy chill seeping through York agrees. _I know, D, I know. I just_ –

D is silent for a moment. _I’m having trouble deciphering which emotion is leading you to this decision –_

 _Probably pride,_ says York wearily. _Or stupidity. Whichever._

 _I don’t think so._ D considers what York said. _It doesn’t seem like pride to me._

“You’re very quiet,” Savoyard says. “Not much of a talker, are you?”

York blinks back to his surroundings, shrugs. “Silence is golden, y’know? I don’t see the point in talking if there’s nothing to say.”

“I just thought you’d have more questions.”

He does have questions, lots of them, but he’s not sure he can ask them and even less confident he’ll get an honest answer. “Figured I’d save them for when we’re at the ‘secure location.’”

“Hmm.” Savoyard raises an eyebrow, smiles her dry little cat smile. “Did you return the money to Mendover?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, uh – I didn’t.” York shifts awkwardly, the leather seat squeaking against his armor.

“So much for honor.”

“I figured I needed the money more than he did.”

“Are you in need of money, Foxtrot?”

York laughs, gesturing at his banged-up armor. “What, the fact that I probably smell like a dumpster didn’t clue you in to that?”

Savoyard shrugs. “I try not to make assumptions based on a person’s appearance.”

“Bullshit, you know I’m fucking broke,” says York. “Why else would you try to get me to work for you?”

“The word is you’re good at what you do, willing to do it for cheap, and don’t ask questions,” says Savoyard. “I know nothing beyond that, nor do I care.”

That sends D off on one of his impromptu data searches, information suddenly streaming into York’s head at hundreds of kilobytes a second, _The Word_ _was an instrumental/Sacred steel/gospel blues jam band,_ _The Word_ _was a 20 th-century television programme in the United Kingdom, In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God –_

_D, buddy, not now, I gotta concentrate._

_My apologies._

The car slows to a halt. Looking out the window, York sees a row of very clean and nondescript warehouses. Sure enough, there’s the Traxus logo on the front of one of them.

_Are we really doing this, D?_

_I would advise not to, but I also know you will not take my advice._

The driver’s come round and opened the door, Savoyard is already halfway out of the car. “Coming?” she says.

York shouldn’t be doing this, he knows, but he’s starving, it’s been days since he slept inside and even longer since he slept in a real bed, and the money he got from Mendover will only last him so long. He could still walk out now, maybe skip town, try and find a job somewhere else –

And then it happens, that one tiny intrusive thought that means it’s over for him, he’s locked in. _You might get information on Carolina._

 _York –_ says D, but he already knows it’s futile to try and convince him otherwise. _The risks of potential capture –_

_Dammit, D, I gotta try. If there was an opportunity to do something and I let it go –_

D doesn’t speak, but York can feel the ones and zeros running furiously, D struggling to reconcile his innate logic with whatever the hell York’s emotions are doing right now.

“Foxtrot,” says Savoyard sharply. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah,” he says, and gets out of the car.

\--

York follows Savoyard and the driver (who is also very clearly security) into the warehouse. It’s very large, very clean and very organized, half of it piled high with shipping crates in various faded colors. The sound of their boots against the concrete floor echoes through the vast space as Savoyard leads them to the left wall, where a flight of metal stairs leads up to an office.

They reach the door, and Savoyard pushes a button on the intercom. “Bosi?” she says into the speaker. “It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Savoyard.”

“Oh yeah. Come in, come in –” It’s a husky, higher-toned voice, like the speaker is just shy of having enough air to speak. “Sorry, I forgot y’all were coming –”

The interior of the office, in contrast to the warehouse, is a disaster zone. There’s computers everywhere, humming processors, four large holoscreens surrounding the desk, a gnarling mass of tangled wire, but also… other things. Boxes of ammunition scattered carelessly, a minigun propped against the wall. More than one ashtray with a half-smoked blunt in it, empty soft drink cans, unopened condoms. There’s a skull on the desk with an iridescent party hat strapped onto it.

York is pretty sure it’s a real skull.

_It’s real._

_Thanks, D._

Whoever’s seated at the desk is typing, slowly – York can hear the _tap tap click_ of them hitting individual keys. He can’t see more than a vague silhouette from behind the glowing screens, but he can hear muffled rap music as well.

“Bosi,” says Savoyard. York’s picked up enough Swahili at this point to know that means _boss_.

The person behind the screens doesn’t respond.

_“Bosi.”_

Still no response. Savoyard walks over and swipes down one of the screens, revealing a man, possibly in his late thirties. He’s brown-skinned, with unshaven cheeks and a cloud of dark hair, wearing a leather jacket over his black turtleneck; the music that York hears is coming from his earmuff-like headphones. Ceasing his typing, he blinks up at Savoyard from behind his glasses. “Huh?”

 _Get a load of this guy,_ says York. D doesn’t respond, but he’s busy analyzing every detail of the man, from his eyeliner to his ragged fingernails. When he takes off his headphones, he reveals multiple silver piercings in his ears. “This is Foxtrot,” says Savoyard, gesturing to York. “The lockbreaker you wanted to hire –”

“Hi,” says York.

The man peers at him owlishly. “Lockbreaker?”

“Well, infiltrations specialist, really –”

“For the warehouse take,” says Savoyard.

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” he rasps. “Foxtrot, yeah –” He stands and leans over his desk with a hand held out, and York hurries to shake it, being careful not to knock over the skull’s party hat. Up close the man smells like a bizarre mix of weed, hand sanitizer, and cinnamon spice aftershave. “Good to meet you, my name’s Viper – sit, have a seat –”

York takes the only available chair; security’s positioned himself by the door, arms folded professionally, while Savoyard stands at Viper’s left hand. “So,” says Viper, staring from screen to screen as he scrolls through files, “this is for the, uh – what is it, the warehouse take –”

“The Ramcore Tech job,” says Savoyard.

“Yeah, that,” says Viper, his glasses shining blue in the light from the screens. He’s opening and closing files, seemingly at random, and D is practically vibrating with irritation and impatience at the inefficiency. “Where is – where’s – where’s that motherfucking file –”

Leaning over him, Savoyard types a couple commands into the keyboard and clicks on what must be the desired file, bringing up images and text. A twist of her hand brings the screen around to face York.

Well, there’s multiple images, of what looks to be various shots of the exterior of a warehouse. There’s also a whole lot of glowing blue text that he can’t read without giving himself a headache, and he’s not really interested in trying.

 _The object of the heist is a storage facility owned by Ramcore Tech,_ says D, scanning through the text. _This particular facility is used to store experimental technology, and as such is equipped with the most advanced technology –_

_Don’t say it, don’t you fucking say it –_

_– including holographic locks._

_Mother_ fuck.

“This is the warehouse we’re planning to steal from,” says Savoyard. “It belongs to Ramcore Tech, an experimental weapons technology group, and inside is a particular piece of technology that we need. There are multiple security levels that we need to breach, including both the warehouse itself and enhanced security protecting the particular object –”

 _York,_ says D, deadly serious. _Ramcore Tech is another subsidiary of Traxus Industries._

 _So –_ York blinks, processing. _So people who work for Traxus are hiring us to steal from other people who work for Traxus –_

_It would appear so._

That’s it. There’s only so much fishiness York can take before even he nopes out of there. “Look,” he says, interrupting Savoyard. She does not appear happy about that. “I’m sure whatever you’ve got in there is real valuable, but this just isn’t the job for me. I’m going to have to say no on this one.”

He stands, casual as can be, despite being vividly aware that everyone in the room is now watching him intently. Viper frowns, pushes his glasses up his nose. “Hey, Fingers, Friday, what was your name again –”

“Foxtrot,” supplies Savoyard smoothly.

“Yeah, Foxtrot,” he rasps. “I dunno if I can let you do that…”

Security Guy is suddenly much closer. York sits slowly, mind racing as to how the fuck he’s going to get out of this alive. _I think our chances of leaving this situation unscathed are relatively high,_ says D. _Provided no one initiates any physical combat._

_Well, I’m not about to do that._

“At this point, there’s no backing out, I’m afraid,” says Savoyard. “You know too much sensitive information, we can’t just let you walk out of here.”

Well, fuck. _D, buddy, you were right, we should have backed out when we had the chance –_

_Believe me, I wish I was wrong._

“So, what, I’m stuck working for you guys now?” says York.

Savoyard shrugs. “More or less.”

York sighs, leaning back in his chair and looking around as if to say, Can you believe this? Just play it cool, play it cool, that’s all he can do. Security Guy does not look impressed.

“You seemed willing enough earlier,” says Savoyard. “Perhaps if you tell us what gave you second thoughts, we can allay your suspicions.”

 _Ask about Mendover,_ says D. _Why was he interested?_

“Well, mostly I’m just confused as to how a grubby little guy like Mendover got his hands on the same take as a high-end organization like you guys clearly are,” says York. “Didn’t think you two’d be running in the same circles.”

“Mendover is a shark,” says Savoyard with evident disgust. “He has no idea what’s actually inside, he just knows there’s something valuable in the warehouse and he wants it.”

“And is anyone gonna tell me specifically what that is?”

Savoyard glances at Viper, perhaps for instruction, but he’s staring at one of the screens with his brow furrowed and mouth slightly open. “No,” she says. “You don’t need to know.”

 _I’m trying to access Ramcore servers,_ says D. _It’s difficult._

“Well, that just _fills_ me with confidence,” says York to Savoyard.

She glares at him. “I should think you’d appreciate the nature of the situation, given your current occupation.”

“Yeah, and I’d think you’d appreciate mine,” he says hotly. “How would you feel if some random crime lords you’d never met before in your life grabbed you off the street and forced you to work for them –”

“You _agreed_ to work for us,” says Savoyard icily.

“Only after you made it pretty fuckin’ clear that I was in serious danger if I didn’t –”

“I implied nothing of the sort –”

“Hey, hey, hey,” says Viper vaguely, finally looking away from the screens. “I don’t like shouting…”

Savoyard sighs and chews her lip, fingers tapping staccato on the desk. _D, you in yet?_ asks York.

_Not quite, but I appreciate the attempt to stall._

_You’re welcome – hey, what do you mean,_ attempt _?_

“These are your options,” says Savoyard. “You work for us, you do the job as we want, we pay you a handsome sum and we part ways as professionals. Or we lock you in a warehouse for two weeks until the heist is over and then drop you off in another city where you never speak of this again.”

 _I can’t get past their firewall,_ says D. _Not without a direct connection._

“Well, shit,” drawls York. “Guess I know which option I’d prefer.”

Savoyard raises her eyebrows at him. “We’d like to hear you say it, please.”

“I’ll work for you guys.”


	3. High Octane

_He stumbles out of the wreckage of the ship, coughing, D hissing statistics in his ear. The air swirls with snow, jagged mountains towering around them. On the edge of the cliff York sees them, two figures, one monstrous in white armor, the other turquoise and held up by her throat… but he’s dizzy, disoriented –_ You suffered a concussion during the crash, _D says,_ I am administering pain medication now – _and black spots seem to swim in front of his vision._

 _“No,” mumbles York, hanging onto the side of_ Mother of Invention _to keep himself upright. “ ‘Lina…”_

_The next step he takes sends him sprawling on his face in the snow, and when he looks up, Maine is standing alone on the cliff, and Carolina is nowhere to be seen._

\--

 _I’m surprised they’re still letting us walk freely,_ says D.

 _Oh, I’m sure someone’s watching me,_ says York bitterly. They’re walking down the street from the cheap motel York had spent the night at – a bed! a real bed! – towards the nearest takeout place. Last night’s dinner had been not much of anything, and York’s stomach is tying itself in painful hungry knots.

 _York,_ says D, who is blessedly unpreoccupied with such mortal wants, _there’s someone trailing us –_

 _What –_ says York, and turns, and is suddenly grabbed by the back of the neck and tossed into the nearest alley. Stumbling, York seizes the wall to regain his balance and finds himself face to face with the Beefy Bodyguard from Mendover’s office and his equally mean-looking companion.

 _Oh, fuck._ “Hey, fellas…” He really, _really_ wishes Viper hadn’t confiscated his pistols and Bowie knife…

“You took money from Mendover,” says Beefy Bodyguard. His friend, who is leaner and whose brick-like jaw is shadowed with stubble, grunts in agreement. “Vhy you not come to see him this morning?”

“Oh, was that today?” lies York. “Shit, I totally forgot, my bad…”

 _They’re not going to buy that,_ says D.

They don’t. “Vhere is money Mendover gave you?” says Beefy Bodyguard.

“Here! Right here,” says York, fumbling to pull out his credit card. Well, most of it is. “Now let’s just take this easy and talk it out like reasonable gentleman…”

“No! No talking,” and Beefy Bodyguard’s fist slams out into the nearest wall. York watches bits of brick shatter and crumble off under the impact. “You haff two options. Vun – you vork for Mendover as agreed. Two – you return money Mendover gave you.”

“Is there a third option?”

“Third option is I peel armor off you like shell off crab. And then my friend and I get to haff real fun.”

“… I don’t like the third option.”

 _Just give him the money,_ hisses D. _Viper’s paying us, and it’s not like the credits will do us any good when he beats our brains out._

 _He’s going to do that anyway when he sees I’ve already spent some of it,_ snaps York.

Beefy Bodyguard is advancing on them menacingly, his bulk blocking the alley and a great deal of sunlight. His mean friend skulks behind him, looking uncannily like a hyena. “Hold it, hold it, I’ll give you the money!” York says. “That was an option, right? Right –”

Beefy Bodyguard’s massive fist swings out, and York dodges it. All right, if that’s how they want to do it –

Beefy Bodyguard throws another punch and York dances past this one, grabbing Beefy Bodyguard’s arm and trying to twist it up behind his back. But Beefy Bodyguard simply throws his entire and considerable weight into York, slamming him into the alley wall.

Grunting, York knees Beefy Bodyguard in the kidney as hard as he can, but Beefy Bodyguard just grunts back, pushing himself harder against York so he’s squashed against the wall, arms pinned. He’s at the wrong angle for York to go for a groin attack; York kicks out, attempting to get his knee, but Beefy Bodyguard steps on his foot with what feels like a boot made of iron. Mean Friend, skulking behind him, chuckles. “Vell,” says Beefy Bodyguard, twisting to put one hand on York’s helmet and gripping it tight. “Let us see how you look under here, hmm?”

York freezes, breath suddenly running fast and shallow to match the rapid pounding of his heart. _Don’t take off the helmet don’t take off the helmet –_

_– easily reached sensitive areas are the armpit and back of knee if you free an arm you can get him –_

“Whoa, easy there,” says a female voice. For one desperate second York hopes it’s Savoyard, but the voice is too young. “Let him go, Shiny.”

Beefy Bodyguard – Shiny – releases York, who staggers, coughing. Looking to the entrance of the alley, he sees his savior is a woman with vivid red-orange hair and a curvy frame – Carolina! he thinks for one heart-stopping second, but no, the woman’s too young to be her. She’s hardly intimidating, but at the sound of her voice both Shiny and Mean Friend immediately fall back, and York has the mental image of two big dogs getting yanked back on a leash. D’s giving her the once-over, but he doesn’t see anything immediately suspicious.

“What’s going on?” says a male voice, and then a man steps around the corner, and –

 _Holy shit, he’s hot,_ thinks York. He’s got tan skin and dark wavy hair and that kind of confident swagger that makes you just want to keep looking at him –

 _Focus,_ snaps D.

Hot Guy walks over to stand by Redheaded Girl, resting his elbow on her shoulder with an easy familiarity. “So,” he says, looking right at York. “This is the lockpicker?”

“I think so,” says Redhead. “You are, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” says York. “Look –”

“You worried about your tail?” says Hot Guy.

York just stares at him. Tail, he doesn’t have a tail –

 _He means the man Viper had following us for security,_ says D.

“He’s fine, he’s alive. I think.” Hot Guy looks down at Redhead, grins, and she nudges him in the ribs. “Anyway…”

“Come take a walk with us,” says Redhead, beckoning him over all friendly-like, but it doesn’t escape York or D that she’s got at least seven different weapons concealed in various parts of her clothing. Hot Guy seemed to go for quality over quantity, and has only one pistol in addition to the Big Fucking Gun slung across his back.

“Look,” says York, hands half-held up, “I don’t know how I feel about this…”

Redhead is still smiling pleasantly, but York gets the sense that Shiny and Mean Friend are suddenly much closer behind him. He swears he can feel Shiny’s breath on the back of his neck.

_Can’t catch a fucking break, man._

Sighing, York starts walking towards Redhead and Hot Guy; as he approaches, Redhead’s smile broadens into a grin. “Awesome,” she says, grabbing York’s arm and hooking it through hers. “I’m Kimene, by the way.”

On York’s other side, Hot Guy does the exact same thing. “And I’m Jahani.”

They’re essentially marching him out of the alley back onto the street; York looks longingly at the fast food place as they walk past it. “I’m, uh, Foxtrot,” he says, feeling that whatever bizarre rules of etiquette they’re playing by demand he say his name as well. Shiny and Mean Friend are still uncomfortably close behind him.

“Yeah,” says Kimene. “I know.”

\--

York is getting very tired of being shepherded into random crime lord establishments.

Kimene and Jahani’s organization apparently works out of the back of a dingy little pharmacy, in what is essentially a glorified broom closet. With Jahani, Kimene, and York in there, there’s barely enough room for the desk and the kid sitting behind it. They – York can’t make out their gender at all – look to be eighteen at the oldest, with dark eyes and even darker skin, their head shaved clean.

“Bwana,” says Kimene, and both she and Jahani are suddenly both more reserved, more formal. “We brought the lockpicker.”

They look up at York with calculating eyes. “So you’re Foxtrot?” they say.

“Yeah.” D’s already accessed the wifi and is trying to get into whatever network they’re using.

“Hmm.” There’s a very awkward silence as they continue to stare up at York, and he tries not to fidget too much. “You may address me as Kisigino, or sir.”

 _Problems with authority figures,_ Savoyard had said. “Okay.”

Kisigino narrows their eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

The instinct to shift to attention is strong. “Yes, sir.”

“Better.” Kisigino leans back in their chair, taps their fingers on the desk. “So you agreed to work for the Snakes even after coming to an understanding with my associate and accepting money from him.”

“The Snakes?”

Kisigino makes a gesture like flicking dirt off their desk. “Viper’s organization.”

God, it’s like living in a bad action movie. “Oh,” says York. “Yeah, uh, I did. They were pretty persistent about it.”

“They offered you money?” says Kisigino, narrowing their eyes.

“They also threatened to shoot me,” says York. “But yeah, they did.”

“How much?”

“Double what Mendover did.”

“Hmm.” Lacing their fingers, Kisigino looks up at York; Jahani and Kimene are standing behind him, against the wall, and he can feel them silently observing everything. “I can pay you double what they offered.”

 _You know,_ thinks York _, I could keep playing them off of each other, get them to keep doubling the money –_

_That’s an extremely unwise decision._

_I know._

“It’s not just the money,” says York. “Like I said, they threatened to shoot me, and besides I kind of like my face the way it is right now…”

“You don’t think I could have you killed?” scoffs Kisigino.

“Oh, no no no, you absolutely could,” says York, D scanning the place for exits. There’s just the one door, and it looks flimsy enough, York could probably smash through it. Although Shiny and Mean Friend are on the other side, and he’s weaponless – maybe if he grabs Jahani’s BFG first –

“Foxtrot?” says Kisigino.

“Yeah?” manages York, turning back to them.

“Pay attention to me.”

There’s something weird about being called to heel by a skinny kid in a hoodie; York is suddenly reminded of the Director, that same assumption of unquestioned authority. “Yeah,” says York. “Paying attention. Eyes and ears on you.”

 _The security here is even stronger than Traxus’,_ says D. _I can’t get through without a direct connection and more time._

“Viper likes to present himself and his people as intimidating, willing to do anything,” says Kisigino. “I can assure you, that is not the case –”

From outside comes a tremendous crash, followed by shouting and gunfire.

Kisigino leaps to their feet; York, taught-wire-tense, sees Jahani and Kimene both have weapons in hand. _D, we gotta break for it, tell me when –_

The door flies open and Mean Friend is hanging onto the doorframe, blood running down one side of his face. “Bwana,” he gasps, “it’s Viper’s men –”

_Now!_

York launches himself at Mean Friend and the momentum throws them onto the pharmacy floor, as York rolls off he grabs the gun D points out for him and then he’s up and running, there’s crashed shelves and pill canisters rolling everywhere, the poor lady behind the counter is screaming –

 _On your left,_ says D, and York ducks just in time to avoid a swing from Shiny.

“You!” he roars. “You vill not escape me –”

Tucking himself into a ball, York hurls himself at the already-cracked window and bursts through in an explosion of shattering glass.

The armor takes the brunt of the blow but he’s still winded as he hits the sidewalk, tumbling over and coming to a halt lying on his back, staring up at the sky. _Two grunts with machine guns covering the door,_ says D, _an armored car with a driver and another gun, and –_

Savoyard suddenly enters York’s field of vision, her face upside down and dark against the blue-white sky. “Hello, Foxtrot,” she says. “How is your morning?”

“Not great so far,” he says. “Yours?”

“Getting better.”

She steps around and offers a hand; York takes it, letting her help him up. On his feet, he can see the two gunmen covering the front of the store, although they’re drawing back to York and Savoyard. “In the car, now,” she says, grabbing his arm and towing him towards it. It’s an impressive black behemoth of a vehicle, and could probably withstand getting hit by a tank. “Before Kisigino gets a chance to call for backup.”

York readily obeys, scrambling into the back seat with Savoyard and the others not far behind. The second the door shuts the driver pulls out with a squealing of tires, zooming into the flow of traffic.

“Foolish of them, to kill the man we had shadowing you,” says Savoyard. “The second he died we were alerted and given his exact location –”

“They’re in pursuit,” says the driver grimly, weaving in and out of lanes. York twists around to look out the slit of a rear window and sees two armored Jeeps rapidly gaining on them, both painted off-white. “I can head toward the docks but I’d have to cut through downtown –”

“No, don’t do that,” says Savoyard. Metal plates in her arm shift and lock down, the form changing subtly to something more compact, more weapon-like. “Turn and head back towards the river.”

“Really?” says York. The driver wrenches on the wheel, swinging across three lanes of traffic to send them skidding through an intersection, horns blaring from all sides. “You’re going to go back –”

Savoyard glares at him. “We need backup.”

They’re roaring down another street now, in the opposite direction. D has the map of the city pulled up again. _If they continue this route towards the river –_

“– you’re going to end up with nowhere to go,” says York. “You’ll get backed into a corner.”

“There are bridges, you know.”

“Yeah, and those are controlled access points, you want more room to maneuver, not less –”

“What do you suggest, then?”

A memory flashes back to York, jumping off a skyscraper, tearing through the freeways in an open jeep with Maine blasting rap music. “Head back towards downtown,” he says. “And give me the wheel.”

Savoyard stares at him like he’s crazy. “No.”

“Savoyard, they’re getting closer!” says the driver, sweat beading on his dark skin. “They’re going to be in firing range soon –”

“Keep driving!” she snaps.

One of the gunmen has a communicator held up to her ear. “Mulifi and Dunde are on their way,” she says.

Savoyard looks back out the window, one eyebrow raised in sharp annoyance. “Tell them to hurry the fuck up.”

“Yeah, and what happens when they catch up to us?” says York. “What are they gonna do? Shoot out those other guys?”

Savoyard just glares at him. The car rounds a corner, brakes squealing, and York clutches hold of the seat in front of him to keep from falling into her. “You’re gonna get shot at too –”

“This car can take a lot of damage.”

“Third car in pursuit, this one’s armored,” says another gunman tightly. “They’ve got a turret too.”

“C’mon,” says York. “I can lose them before anyone takes a shot. Just give me the wheel.”

Machine gun fire cuts loud and staccato through the roar of engines and York can feel the impact of the bullets in the car. “Fine!” shouts Savoyard. “Get in the front seat, go!”

He clambers over, the car veering horribly as the wheel’s handed over, but then York’s in the seat with his foot on the gas and he wrenches the car out of the way of oncoming traffic. _All right, D, buddy, just tell me where to go._

_Turn right in three – two –_

York spins the wheel and the car fishtails, more cars honking at him. Picking up speed, he weaves back and forth between the two lanes, trusting D to tell him when there’s a car in his blind spot.

_D, red light ahead –_

But he’s already on it, calculating trajectory, acceleration –

“What are the hell are you thinking?” shouts Savoyard.

York’s not thinking. D is.

They fly though the intersection at just the right time, swerving the exact amount, milliseconds away from a collision. The driver, clinging for dear life to the passenger door handle, is swearing a blue streak, and the two gunmen in the back aren’t doing much better. There’s a massive crash from behind them and York, checking the rearview mirror, sees one of the Jeeps t-boned by a car. The whole intersection’s a mess of vehicles, with the other Jeep and the armored car fighting to get through.

York whoops, turns around to grin at Savoyard; at this point D’s practically driving. “Told you!”

“We’re not clear of them yet,” she says, but she looks grudgingly impressed.

The two pursuing cars managed to make it through the scrum and are hot on their heels; York is particularly keen that the turreted armored car doesn’t catch up to them. _All right, D, now what?_

_Trust me._

_Always do._

York would have thought that having someone else control his body would be terrifying, and in any other context it probably would, but not here, not now. It’s not so much control as partnership, when the car makes a hard left it’s both York and D gripping the wheel, York and D together slamming on the accelerator, York and D checking behind them to see how close the pursuers are.

They’re still out of range, for now. That doesn’t stop the turret from taking a few wild shots, which D easily zigzags to avoid. But they’re heading downtown, and the traffic’s getting thicker and thicker, they’re going to have to start pushing their way through which will significantly slow them down, or –

York and D jump the car onto the divider between the two lanes, and it’s just wide enough that they can go roaring down, mowing down a few poor saplings. “Holy shit, this guy’s crazy –” stammers one of the gunmen.

 _We’re nearing the A109,_ says D.

 _Good._ “Hey, you with the communicator –”

“Yeah?”

“Tell whoever’s coming to meet us on the A109, near the downtown exit.”

She doesn’t respond, and twisting around York sees that she’s looking at Savoyard for confirmation. “Just do it!” he shouts, and Savoyard shrugs assent.

“Fine.” Sighing, the gunman touches her finger to the piece in her ear. “Mulifi, Dunde, this is Ongeri, you need to rendezvous on the A109 at Exit 22, that is the A109 at Exit 22 –”

There’s another intersection and the divider on the far side of it has full-grown trees; York and D wrench the car back into the left lane, sending it skidding across to end up on the sidewalk, pedestrians screaming and throwing themselves out of the way. From behind them, a klaxon wail starts up.

“Police,” says Savoyard grimly, York bullying his way back onto the road. York can see the flashing lights in his rearview mirror – ah, just like college. “You better know what you’re doing…”

The police are neck and neck with Kisigino’s cars, and the armored car slams into the side of one of them, forcing it into the divider. “Don’t worry,” says York. “I got this.”

“Do you?” Savoyard says through clenched teeth, her robot hand clamped on the shoulder of York’s seat.

 _Bridge over the A109 in two-point-five miles,_ says D. _We have to pass through the heart of downtown first._

_The wheel’s all yours._

You think he’d have gotten used to this shit during PFL but he hasn’t, it’s terrifying and exhilarating watching the cars flash by and knowing every twitch of the wheel is life or death, there’s more gunfire from behind them and he yells, using an intersection to speed in front of a truck, shoving cars out of the way as the bridge approaches –

 _STOP YOUR CARS,_ blares the police behind them. _STOP IMMEDIATELY –_

York’s highly tempted to stick his hand out of the window and flip the cops off, but that would probably result in him losing the hand. Instead he just drives faster, honking the horn furiously, there’s a godawful screech as he scrapes against a truck on his right –

_Ohhh, shit._

The buildings around them are getting taller and shinier, the traffic’s getting slower and denser, up ahead York can see the matt of unmoving cars, sunlight shining blindingly bright off their roofs as they honk at each other from the depths of gridlock hell –

_D, how far away is the bridge?_

_Half a mile._

_Right._ “Everyone, hang on!” And just before he becomes well and truly embroiled he charges the car over – sorry, dude in the beat-up coup – and starts barreling the car down the sidewalk, honking the horn as loud as he can.

“This is insane,” mutters Savoyard, glaring out the window, and York’s just really glad every pedestrian so far has managed to get out of the way in time, as they pass a row of cafes tables and chairs and umbrellas go flying over the windshield.

“How’s our tail?” he shouts over the noise. It’s not a smooth ride either, the driver’s still clinging to the door as the car bounces and jerks sharply.

“Police are falling back,” says Ongeri, “Kisigino’s men are still hot –”

York keeps plowing on, he’s definitely clipped people at this point but not directly hit anyone –

_Quarter of a mile –_

He can see the break in the skyscrapers where the highway is, sunlight pouring down like white-hot gold – he puts all his weight onto the gas pedal, speed shooting up to 45, 50, 60 –

_Bridge approaching in five seconds – four – three – two –_

They shoot onto the bridge spanning over the highway, they’re almost at the midpoint, with a squealing of wheels York spins the car around and stomps on the gas, heading straight off the bridge –

They smash through the chain link fence, soaring through the air, and York feels tight and breathless like there’s nothing inside him and the driver has gone grey-faced, Savoyard lunges forward and swears in French, York stamps on the gas pedal to keep the wheels spinning –

They hit the ground _hard_ , everyone in the car thrown against walls, seats, each other, and it bounces and for a terrifying moment York thinks it’s going to roll but the car’s heavy enough that it doesn’t and then they’re speeding down the highway, which is blessedly less choked with cars.

“How ‘bout that?” says York, grinning, only a little shaky. His heart’s pounding a mile a minute, thank God he’s got D to keep a steady hand on the wheel. “Everyone okay?”

“You son of a bitch,” says Savoyard, but she’s smiling too. She’s the only one, though. The driver’s got both hands covering his face, Ongeri’s gripping her communicator tight and breathing heavily through her nose, and the other gunman is twisted round to look behind them.

“They didn’t follow,” he says. “At least the Jeep didn’t. Wait – shit –”

“Ongeri, this is Mulifi,” crackles the communicator. “We see you, we’re heading to your position –”

“We got company!” she snaps, at the same time as the turreted car fires at them, the car shuddering with the impact of bullets, the noise sharp and earsplittingly loud. “They’re firing at us –”

York can see an armored truck driving towards them, against the flow of traffic, with what looks like a rocket launcher on top. “Uh, guys –”

“Don’t worry,” says the communicator, smug. “We got this.”

The truck fires a missile.

“Holy shit!” yells York, swerving out of the way (very nearly crashing into a white sedan), and he spins the car to a halt against the divider just in time to see Kisigino’s armored car explode in a burst of molten orange and black.

Laughter crackles over the communicator. “Anyone else you need taken care of?”

“Looks good for now, we’ll let you know,” says Ongeri, smirking.

Savoyard surveys the wreckage with a calm expression, one arm on the back of her seat. “Tell them to follow us while we head back,” she says, and Ongeri obeys. “Foxtrot, I applaud you, that was well done. Chipende, are you good to drive?”

There’s still a gray tinge to the driver’s face, but he nods, swallowing and wiping sweat off his forehead. “Yes.”

“Foxtrot, kindly allow my driver to take the wheel and return to your seat. I’d like to be out of here before Kisigino decides to bring in a helicopter.”

York clambers into the empty middle seat and flops down with a sigh. _D, buddy, how you doing?_

 _I am all right._ He sounds a little faint but that doesn’t worry York too much, it uses a lot of juice for D to take control like that. The car engine revs, and they start driving again. _Logically we should have not survived that._

 _I know,_ says York, and then before he can stop himself he _giggles._

“Foxtrot?” says Savoyard, raising an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” he says, pushing himself upright. “Just, uh – can’t believe we pulled that off.”

“Mm.” Savoyard’s looking at him appraisingly. “Somehow I can.”

Now that the adrenaline’s leaving him he can feel the exhaustion hitting, hard – he’s been running on empty, and sharing physical control is draining for him, too. “Hey,” he says to Savoyard. “Does this seat recline?”

She just gives him a look, _of course it doesn’t, this is an armored car, not a luxury sedan_. “No.”

“Shame.” York gets comfortable as best he can, closes his eyes. _D, before you knock out, make sure you lock down my armor._ “Wake me up if you need me to drive again.”


	4. Safe is in the Eye of the Beholder

_This time he reaches her before the_ Mother of Invention _crashes, as she and Tex are battling in the control room. “Carolina!” he shouts, clinging for dear life to the rail as the ship hurtles down, and they both look at him. “Carolina, Tex, we’ve got to get out of here –”_

_Carolina moves towards him, but it’s still too late. As she leaps to grab his hand, the ship crashes, and all three of them are sent tumbling through a whirlwind of fire and smoke and broken glass –_

“Foxtrot.”

York jerks awake – he’s in a car, he can’t move, there’s an unfamiliar hand on his shoulder. “Foxtrot,” says the woman again, and he recognizes Savoyard as well as the other people in the car, and his panicked breathing slows. “Wake up.”

 _D,_ he says, nudging him awake. _Unlock my armor._ “I’m up.”

D complies groggily, and York stretches, casual. “C’mon,” says Savoyard, and he registers that not only is the car stopped, but the door’s open. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we?” York steps out onto the sidewalk, his visor darkening to compensate for the blinding sunlight, and squints up at a row of unassuming apartment buildings.

“Safe house,” says Savoyard. “You’ll stay here until the heist, we don’t want Kisigino’s people coming back for you.”

No, we don’t, thinks York, especially not that bald motherfucker Shiny. He follows Savoyard inside the cool dark of the lobby and up two flights of stairs. But then they get to the apartment, and Savoyard opens the door and steps in, and York stops dead. “Oh,” he says, from the doorway, because this is very clearly her own living space. It’s got a nice middle-class sort of vibe, with tan leather furniture and a couple tasteful paintings. “I thought you said safe house.”

“This is.”

“But this is your place.”

“Yes,” says Savoyard, eyebrows raised. “Now get inside so I can lock the door.”

She’s got two deadbolts on it, as well as a chain. “Reinforced,” she says, rapping it with her knuckles. “The windows are two inches thick as well.”

“Ah.” That should make York feel safe, he knows, but all he feels is trapped.

The only consolation is that Savoyard looks as awkward about it as he feels. “Well,” she says stiffly, walking into the kitchenette, “do you want something to drink? Water, coffee –”

It’s not until she mentions water that he realizes how thirsty he is; at the same time, his stomach growls loudly. “Uh.”

Savoyard grabs a water bottle out of the fridge and gives him a look. “Or I could order a pizza.”

“That would be great.”

She takes a long drink from the water bottle, eyes never leaving him. “You could sit down, you know,” she says.

York shrugs. “I wouldn’t want to get your couch all dirty.”

Savoyard raises her eyebrows. “You could take off your armor.”

The only time he takes off his armor is to shower, which only happens when he both a) has access to running water and b) feels safe enough that he can justify removing his armor in the first place. So… not very often at all. Sure, it’s not ideal hygienically, but he modified some of the healing unit tech to run antibacterials, so at least it’s not too bad. He cleans the inside when he can, but he’s never as thorough as he could be. Being out of his armor feels defenseless, vulnerable, like a hermit crab without its shell, and York hates it.

“I don’t…really take my armor off.”

Savoyard’s eyebrows continue to climb up her forehead. “Not even your helmet?”

“Not really, no.”

“How do you eat?”

“I eat inside my helmet.” York pauses, a sudden weight on his chest. “Learned how to from an old buddy of mine.”

Wash had been in the infirmary when the _Mother of Invention_ went down, brains wrecked by a rogue AI. York doesn’t know what shape he survived the crash in, but he doubts it’s pretty.

 _York?_ says D, stirring. _Are you all right?_

_I’m fine, D._

_It does not seem that way to me._

Savoyard’s watching him with pursed lips, although her expression seems a little softer. “You could use my shower, if you want,” she says. “I have a feeling you need it.”

_D?_

_You can do so,_ he says. _This apartment is very well protected, and the chances that Savoyard will attempt to attack you are statistically improbable._ He hesitates, the slightest bit. _Besides, cleanliness has been shown to help with raising mood levels._

_Thanks, D._

“Sure,” he says. “Thanks.”

“No problem. The bathroom’s over here, I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

The bathroom is as clean and nicely furnished as the rest of the apartment, although lacking some of the personal touches he associates with bathrooms, like four different kinds of shampoo and mismatched towels and just stuff everywhere in general. Maybe this really is a safe house after all, or at least not her primary apartment. York shuts the door and is about to lock it when D says, _Wait. She’s bringing you clothing._

_Oh yeah._

There’s a knock on the door. “Foxtrot?”

York opens it and there’s Savoyard, holding a pile of folded clothes. “I had to guess what size you are under that armor,” she says. “Large?”

“Yeah,” he says, taking the pile, his gloves already leaving dirty smudges on the clean fabric. Looks to be a t-shirt, sweatpants, and boxers. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She steps back and York shuts the door and locks it, looking down at the clothes in his hand. So this is definitely a safe house, then, if she’s got random men’s clothes lying around.

 _They could have been a previous partner’s,_ says D. _Not likely, but possible._

For most of his life York would have absolutely refused to put on underwear that had been worn by someone else; now he just shrugs and puts the clothes on the counter. Reaching up, York hooks his fingers under the edge of his helmet and pulls it off; when he looks up, he finds himself staring at his reflection for the first time in what feels like centuries.

He almost doesn’t recognize himself. His hair is greasy and matted, the stubble on his jaw grimy, the circles under his eyes deep and bruised-colored. His cheeks are hollow, and his lips thin and chapped. Even the skin around his bad eye looks tired, the scars red and sunken. _Shit,_ he thinks. _Well, I’ve looked worse._

There’s a green glint in his busted eye when D speaks. _Actually, as far as I can tell from accessing your memories, you haven’t._

_Thanks._

Again, the tinny static of D’s laugh, which is strangely comforting. _All right, well, no time like the present,_ says York, and starts stripping off the rest of his armor.

It looks even grimier than he remembers when in a battered pile on the floor, and the sweatshirt and pants he had underneath it are in even worse condition. The shower running now, York peels his clothes off and kicks them into a corner, the clean air on his skin raising goosebumps. He feels small and unprotected, far too light without the extra weight he’s used to carrying, and suddenly the door seems like a terribly ineffective barrier between him and the rest of the world. York looks around for a chair or something to wedge under the handle, but there’s nothing. Maybe he can knot a towel around it or something…

_The sooner you start showering, the sooner you’ll be done._

_I suppose._ York steps into the shower, and _fuck_ , whatever else is going on the hot water feels amazing. He gives himself a moment to simply stand there and let the water run down over him.

D, meanwhile, is cataloguing. _So it appears at this point that we really do have to work for Viper, for our own protection if nothing else._

_Mm._

_It continues to elude me why an organization funded by Traxus would be stealing from another significant Traxus holding._

_Really, D? You’re supposed to be smart._

There’s a pause as D calculates. _I suppose I can understand why,_ he says. _But it’s not logical._

York sighs, squirting shampoo into his palm. _Yeah, well, humans ain’t logical._

_Do you still think we could obtain any information on Agent Carolina?_

_I dunno._ York contemplates as he washes his hair, careful of getting suds in his eyes. _Don't see where we'd get it from.  
_

_It seems unlikely, I have to admit. We’re far too many degrees removed from the source._

_You know what we should do? Steal a radio or something, figure out how to listen into their transmissions. Maybe there’ll be tech in this warehouse that we can use._

_Maybe._

_What do you think is in there?_ Rinse, wash, repeat; it feels good to massage his fingers against his scalp, although he kind of wishes he could have someone else do that for him.  _  
_

_Statistically speaking, probably weapons._

_I figured, what kind?_

_Your guess is as good as mine._

_You’re no fun, D._ _You’re supposed to speculate._ York gargles water, swallows enough to take the edge off his thirst.

_I fail to see the purpose of that._

_Entertainment,_ says York wearily. He’s started soaping his body down, and shit, he’s definitely lost weight and muscle. Are those his ribs? Fuck. He can see his fucking ribs. _Something to occupy my mind with._

York finishes cleaning himself, turning the shower off and stepping out. Using a towel that isn’t scratchy and cheap feels strange, but in a good way. What’s even stranger is the feeling of clean clothes against his skin; they’re soft, which is nice, but so horribly thin and flimsy, how is this supposed to protect him against anything –

Facing himself in the mirror, York braces his arms against the sink, sighs heavily. There’s no way he can leave the room like this, but…the more he looks down at his pile of filthy armor, the less he wants to put it on again.

 _We can’t stay in this bathroom forever,_ says D.

 _Thanks for pointing out the obvious._ But it doesn’t help York make a decision; he just keeps standing there, watching the fog slowly clear off the mirror.

There’s a knock at the door and York freezes, the air in the room suddenly thick and close. “Foxtrot?” says Savoyard.

 _She can’t see me like this she can’t see me shecan’tseeme –_ “Yeah?” he manages.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Despite his efforts to sound casual, it still comes out slightly strangled.

There’s a pause, and then she says “Foxtrot,” again, except it’s almost exactly the way North used to say his name when he could see through York’s bullshit about how what Carolina said didn’t bother him or his latest injury wasn't hurting. _Fuck_ , thinks York, hanging his head and sighing. There’s nothing for it, he’s going to have to open that door.

 _She won’t hurt you,_ says D.

_Statistically improbable, right? Or are her adrenaline levels too low?_

_You’re valuable to her and her superior. She won’t damage that._

_She can’t see my face, she can’t see my fucking face._ Savoyard’s got Traxus contacts and Traxus knows PFL, for all he knows there’s a bounty out on his head, WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE, AGENT YORK, 6’ 0’’, 183 LBS., BROWN HAIR, ONE GRAY EYE, ONE BLANK WITH SCARRING –

He could wrap a towel around his head or something, but that would still leave his eyes exposed, and that’s his most distinguishing feature. _You have to put on the helmet,_ says D.

York sighs. _I know._ He picks it up off the ground and puts it on and God, it’s rank, it stinks of sweat and sour breath. Doing his best not to clench his fists, or at least not look visibly tense, York walks to the door and opens it.

Now that he’s out of his armor, he’s on eye level with Savoyard – her eyes are a deep gold-green, _shit_ , so were Carolina’s – and looking down, he sees she’s taken her jacket off, revealing an olive-green tank top. Her metal arm extends to halfway up her bicep; after that there’s skin visible, although metal reinforcements continue upwards, anchoring the arm around her shoulder and collarbone.

“Oh,” she says. “Still wearing the helmet.”

“I can’t let you see my face.”

“Why not?” She frowns at him, almost as if she’s trying to peer through the visor, and puts her right hand on his arm. York reflexively flinches, but when he lets himself relax into the touch it feels… nice. Nicer than he’d care to admit. “Are you worried I’ll recognize you?”

“Sort of.”

She purses her lips. “You’re worried I’ll turn you in to whoever you’re running from.”

York is not fond of how uncannily accurate her guesses are, nor is D. “…Yeah.”

“Why would I do that? We still need you.”

“Yeah, but…after.”

Savoyard smiles wryly. “Whoever you’re on the run from, I doubt they would look kindly on the type of criminal activity we’re involved in.”

York doubts that. PFL is an entity unto itself.

“Well,” she says, stepping back – did he imagine it, or did her fingers linger the tiniest bit before leaving his arm – “I can see I’m not going to change your mind.”

“No, you’re not.”

Smirking slightly, Savoyard turns and starts walking away. “I’ll make a bed up for you on the couch,” she says. “And let’s see if we can do something about ordering that pizza.”


	5. Bonding

_He stumbles out of the wreckage of the ship, coughing, D hissing statistics in his ear. The air swirls with snow, jagged mountains towering around them. On the edge of the cliff York sees them, two figures, one monstrous in white armor, the other turquoise and held up by her throat –_

_“NO!” shouts York, scrambling towards them, struggling to get his footing. His boots slip in the mushy snow, D mapping the quickest trajectory for him. As he nears he can see Carolina’s helmet is off, her red hair whipping in the wind, and there’s blood on the snow –_

_With a roar York crashes into Maine, sending all three of them toppling to the ground. Carolina yells and swings a kick into Maine’s stomach, but he just takes it with a grunt. York scrabbles for a hold on Maine –_ His armor is weakest under the left armpit _, says D_ – _and_ _York grabs the Bowie knife in his boot_ (did he have that? he didn’t have a knife then) _and stabs it up under Maine’s chestplate._

_Maine roars in pain, punches York in the head so hard he goes tumbling head over heels, blinding pain shattering through his skull._

_“You son of a bitch!” yells Carolina, and York hears scuffling and the crunch of impact and armor scraping against armor._ I am administering pain medication, thankfully you did not suffer a severe concussion, _D rattles off –_

_Groaning, York opens his eyes to see Carolina straddling Maine, his helmet’s off and she’s punching him in the face again, and again, and again, screaming incoherently, there’s blood all over Maine’s face, blood spattered crimson against the snow, blood dripping from her fists –_

_“Carolina,” coughs York, his head still swimming. “Carolina, stop!” Maine’s not fighting back, and whatever’s hijacked his brain he’s still Carolina’s friend, deep down – “Carolina!”_

_She stops, panting, staring at York with wide eyes, and because the flurry of snow in the air has lessened York has a crystal-clear view of Maine yanking the knife out of his side and stabbing it in Carolina’s throat._

York wakes with a start, heart pounding, mouth dry. For a second he doesn’t recognize where he is, it’s light, it’s bright, whatever he’s lying on is strangely soft, he’s not in his armor, and then he has the panicked thought that PFL captured him, they’ve got him strapped down in surgery before they take D out –

 _We’re in Savoyard’s apartment-slash-safe house,_ says D. _We are not currently in danger._

Letting out a long, slow breath, York tries to relax. Right, the light coming through the gap in the curtains is sunshine, not surgical lamps, and he’s not wearing his armor because it’s –

– because it’s _not in the pile where he left it last night –_

Throwing the blanket off, York leaps to his feet and starts frantically scanning the living room, where’s his armor, fucking Savoyard probably took it and is off selling it to PFL and they’re going to find him and –

“Foxtrot?”

Whipping around, York sees Savoyard standing in the kitchen, watching him, and all his armor (except, of course, the helmet he’s wearing) is neatly laid out on the counter. She’s got a greave in one hand and a dirty rag in the other, and there’s a bottle of windex or something on the counter as well. “Whoa whoa whoa!” shouts York, scrambling over. “Don’t – what are you doing –”

Savoyard might as well have her eyebrows permanently raised at this point. “Cleaning your armor,” she says. “It’s filthy.”

“Well, don’t,” says York, grabbing the nearest pieces he can and pulling them towards him. She’s going to find a PFL logo he missed, she’s going to find the ports for tech in the backpiece, she’s going to find the auxiliary port in the collar for D’s chip –

“All right, fine.” Savoyard puts down the greave and the rag, holds her hands up. She’s looking at York strangely but he doesn’t care, he’s checking to make sure every piece is still there.

 _Every piece is accounted for,_ says D. _They all appear undamaged as well._

York sighs, hands braced against the counter. _We can’t keep doing this, D. We can’t keep – just – flying off the handle…_

At least the pieces Savoyard got to so far are significantly cleaner, if not mint condition. And it doesn’t escape his attention that the ones she hasn’t cleaned, well, stink. “Well,” he says, pulling a thigh-guard towards him and picking up the windex, “since you already started…”

Savoyard looks surprised, but pleasantly so. “All right.”

“I’ll do these pieces, though,” he says, and grabs anything with either sensitive technology or where a logo might be. They work in companionable silence for a while, until D says, _Why all this effort to protect you?_

_Hmm?_

_You’re not the only lockpicker on Voi. Why did Kisigino need to kidnap you? Why has Viper spent so much effort in getting you back?_

_That…is an excellent point._ “Savoyard?”

“Mm?”

“So don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful and all, but why put all the effort into getting me back from Kisigino? I’m not exactly the only lockpicker in town.” _And certainly not the best._

Savoyard smirks, scrubbing hard at a stain on a pauldron. “It’s not about you,” she says. “Viper and Kisigino have been rivals ever since, well, ever since they became bosses. Always tripping over themselves just to bring the other down.”

That can’t be all that long, York thinks, considering how young Kisigino appeared to be. Or how vague Viper was, he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d remember to hold a grudge in the first place. “Ah.”

“So don’t worry,” says Savoyard, winking. “You’re nobody special.”

In any other context that’d be an insult; now, York just chuckles. “Good to know.” His stomach growls. “Hey, is there any of that pizza left?”

“No, we finished it yesterday, remember?” says Savoyard.

York does remember. He’d spent most of yesterday alternating between dozing off and making his way through a medium cheese-and-tomato pizza, not needing D’s warnings about overeating on an empty stomach to take it slow. He’s read his survival fics. The constant napping had surprised him though, but D was unfazed. _You’ve been running on less than optimal rest and nutrition for a while, it is only natural that your body would take additional time to recover after exertion._ “Anything in the fridge?”

“Just some water,” says Savoyard. “Generally there’s no one living here.”

“Damn.” He puts down the chest piece; it’s not exactly sparkling but he’s done the best he could. The only thing left is… his helmet.

_There’s no reason to clean it._

_It stinks, D._

_That does not bother me. The thought of you revealing your identity and Savoyard turning us in to Project Freelancer does._

_I know, I know, I know, just –_

“Foxtrot?”

“I’m cleaning my helmet in the bathroom,” he says, and grabs the windex.

\--

Later in the day, Savoyard gets a call from Viper. “Heist’s been moved up to tomorrow,” she tells York. “Initially there were some additional resources we were holding out for, but now we can’t take the chance of Kisigino trying to grab you again, or take the goods before us. He'll come by tomorrow morning to brief, and then we'll act that night.”

“Sounds good to me.” The sooner they hit up the place, the sooner he and D can blow this joint. Because there’s no way they can stay in Voi anymore, not after all this; being on the wanted list of two rival crime lords doesn’t exactly scream low-profile.

Sighing, Savoyard throws herself onto the couch next to York, stretching her long legs out onto the coffee table. “Still wearing the helmet, I see.”

“I’ll notify you if that changes.”

Savoyard yawns lazily. “So that’s all you’re concerned about, huh? Some mysterious organization finding you.”

“I – what?”

“You’re not, I don’t know, hiding a grotesque deformation or really bad acne or –”

“If you’re trying to goad me into taking my helmet off, it won’t work,” says York, arms folded. Really, she ought to know better.

“What would it take?”

“You know, the more you try, the less likely it’s going to happen.”

“Guess I’ll stop asking then.” Reaching forward, Savoyard picks up the remote and turns on the TV, switching the channel to the news. York watches idly; he trusts D to let him know if anything important shows up. “Look, Foxtrot,” says Savoyard after a minute. “You’re on the news.”

York looks to the screen to see a shot of the armored car flying off the bridge onto the highway. The reporter is talking about the high-speed chase that went through downtown, and York can’t read the scrolling ticker on the bottom without squinting but he assumes it’s about sports or war or whatever the hell else is going on in the world these days. “Huh,” he says. “Kid me would’ve been ecstatic.”

The news anchor continues talking, a gentle cadence to her voice, and it’s warm in the room, and the couch is comfy, and York really didn’t sleep well at all. Curling up in the corner, York adjusts the pillows underneath his head, lets his eyes drift closed…

But he soon discovers he’s in that uncomfortable state where he’s too tired to do things but not enough to actually fall asleep. It doesn’t help that the gnawing emptiness in his stomach is growing steadily more persistent, either. “So…” he says eventually. “About that whole food thing…”

Savoyard pulls out her phone. “Yeah, I got it,” she says. “What do you feel like, Thai or nyama choma?”

\--

The day wears on, and the temperature rises, even with the A/C on and the curtains blocking most of the sunlight. York can feel the sweat collecting on his forehead, soaking into the padding at his temples, rolling down his cheek to be absorbed in the padding at his jaw. Somehow, with the rest of him clean and armor-free, it feels even more disgusting.

_The air intake on this thing is working, right?_

_For the fourth time, yes. You would not be able to breath properly otherwise._

_Doesn’t feel like I can breathe proper as it is,_ says York, peevish.

Finally he excuses himself to the bathroom, careful to shut and lock the door behind him, and pulls off his helmet like a drowning man coming up for air. God, it feels so much better with that off, and the cold water from the sink that he splashes on is even more soothing.

For a while he simply sits there on the counter, occasionally wetting his face and the back of his neck again and wishing he had one of those little hand-held fans, until there’s a knock at the door. “Everything all right?” says Savoyard.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just needed to cool down.”

“I see.”

York keeps waiting for her to speak – say something, the way you did before, you sounded like North, I just need to hear that again – but for a long time, there’s silence. “Savoyard?” he finally says.

“Yes?”

“You’re still there.”

There’s a hint of amusement in her voice. “I am.”

“Did – did you need the bathroom or something?”

The amusement grows stronger. “No.”

“Ah.” York stares at the ecru wall across from them, helmet cradled in his hands. _This is it, D. I am going to live in this bathroom for the rest of my life._

_You’re… not putting the helmet back on?_

He sighs, turning it over in his hands. He needs it, he knows. But he’s so tired of wearing the damn thing…

 _York,_ says D sharply. _It’s not worth it._

_What’s not worth it? Human interaction? Yeah, you’d say that, wouldn’t you…_

_If she discovers who we are –_

_Then she’ll turn us in to PFL and they’ll do unspeakable things to us and I’ll never see you again, I know,_ says York. _It’s just – I’m really fucking tired of being alone –_ and to his horror he realizes there’s tears in his good eye.

D is silent for a long while. _I see._

_D… D, buddy…_

_My understanding was that as long as I was here, you were not alone._

_No, no, I’m not, you’re here, I know, it’s just –_ It’s the kind of moment that demands physical contact between two people, York wants a hand to hold, _something_ , but all he’s got is a cybernated voice in his head and this stupid fucking helmet in his hands. _It’s just – it’s_ different _, D, people need people – not that you’re not people, you are, there’s just… a difference,_ he finishes lamely.

 _I see,_ says D again, softly.

_You – you do? Because –_

_No, I do, I understand._ D sounds thoughtful now, a little more confident. _Humans are social creatures, designed for varying levels of intimacy with multiple others. It would be foolish of me to assume that I alone could fulfill that need, especially for one with extroverted tendencies such as yourself._

 _D…_ There’s a weird feeling inside him, aching-happy-sad all at once, and it doesn’t feel bad but he kinda wishes it would stop. _You’re the best damn AI on the planet, you know that? Best in the galaxy. Best in the whole fucking universe._

_‘Best’ is a subjective term and as such cannot be judged with any measure of conclusivity –_

_That’s not even a word, you made that up just now._

_I did not._

_Did too._

_I refuse to be drawn into pointless arguments such as this one._

York chuckles, wipes his eye on the back of his hand. _I’m tired of running scared, buddy. And I think you are too._

Delta doesn’t disagree, which means he agrees. Taking a deep breath, York stands up, and with the helmet cradled under one arm goes over to the door. _I am obligated to remind you that this is an extremely foolish decision,_ says Delta, York’s finger sliding over the brassy knob of the lock.

 _I know,_ he murmurs. _Stupid by whose standards?_

_Mine, obviously. Possibly yours as well._

_Well, stupid’s one of my defining features,_ and he opens the door.

Savoyard’s seated on the arm of the couch, texting – when she hears the door open she looks up, and as she realizes York’s not wearing his helmet her eyes widen. “Oh,” she says. “So you took it off after all.”

York shrugs, smiling wryly – it feels _strange_ , way too exposed, to know that someone else can read the emotions on his face. “There’s not exactly air conditioning in there.”

“Hmm.” Standing, Savoyard walks over to him and scrutinizes his face. She's shiny with sweat, cheeks flushed red; the heat oozes like syrup down York's neck and arms. “You don’t look like how I thought you would.”

“What’d you expect?”

Savoyard shrugs. “Skinnier face, squarer jaw,” she says. “Dark hair.” Her eyes travel over his face, taking in the details. “More handsome.”

Honestly, he’s conscious enough of how wrecked he looks that that doesn’t even sting. “You should see me in the mornings.” Is he flirting? Fuck. He’s probably flirting. He doesn’t even mean to, it just… _happens._

“Mm.” She’s still looking at him. Savoyard’s very attractive, she is, and while York can feel the physical ache for her deep in his bones – God, it’s been so long since he’s touched someone, _anyone_ – the thought of being intimate, undressing, becoming even more unshielded than he already is is downright terrifying.

Savoyard reaches up with one hand, her flesh hand, fingers long and ivory-colored, and touches it to the scars on his cheek. “What happened to your eye?”

He has to work very hard not to lean into her hand. “Long story involving a grenade and a few friends of mine.”

“An accident, I hope,” says Savoyard, frowning.

“Nope,” says York. There was nothing accidental about anything that day. “Not at all.”

“Oh.” Savoyard traces her fingers down the scar again, lightly, and then she leans in and kisses him.

Her lips are warm and soft and still faintly taste of salt from the Thai food earlier, and it feels good, it feels _so good._ Her hand wraps around to the back of his neck, pulls him in closer, and York willingly obeys, he’s still holding his helmet in one hand but he brings the other up to cup her cheek, a thumb feeling the ridge of her own scar. Savoyard wants to go open-mouthed, he can feel her tongue working against his lips, but there’s only so far York’s willing to go and so he keeps his own lips closed and lets her kiss him again and again.

Eventually Savoyard steps back, hair honey-gold in the sunlight. “Well,” she says, and he can tell from her body language that she’s not necessarily satisfied but knows there’s no point in trying any further. “I’m glad you took your helmet off.”

“Yeah,” says York. “Me too.”

D grumbles, of course, but it’s clear he doesn’t really mean it either.


	6. The Heist

_“I need your help,” says Tex._

_“Sorry,” says York. “I can’t.”_

_Two days later he hears of the tragic crash of the_ Mother of Invention _and the many casualties suffered, including Director Church's beloved daughter._

\--

The sun’s only just disappeared behind the skyscrapers, the sky fading from lemon yellow to deep indigo blue, the streets dusky and marine. York steps out onto the street, grateful that the temperature’s cooled enough that wearing his armor is bearable.

“You look better,” says Ongeri. She’s standing by the large black van parked in front of the apartment; there’s a smaller jeep behind it, as well as a motorcycle. There’s several other people – _Five,_ says D – and they’re all in black riot gear and armed.

Savoyard goes straight to Ongeri, who immediately starts talking to her in French. _Does he have it?_ D translates for Ongeri.

 _Can’t tell,_ says Savoyard tersely. _Proceed as if he does._

 _Who’s_ he, says York, tension pulling his shoulders together like cold wires. _Is that me? What would I have –_ D is very silent, processing, but York knows he’s worried too. _D, I don’t fucking like this –_

 _Our only option at the moment is forward,_ he says. _And Savoyard could have been referring to any number of persons –_

_But it’s not likely._

_No._

York exhales slowly. Stay calm, just stay calm, he can get through this. _D, I’m sorry about the helmet thing, that was fucking stupid –_

“Foxtrot,” says Savoyard. “Come meet your team.”

There’s two women and a man standing by the smaller car, and York approaches them cautiously. “This is Mulifi –” says Savoyard, and the older woman, with gray in her close-buzzed hair and lines framing her lips, nods her head “– Dunde –” the man, whose long dreadlocks are twisted into a bun and whose skin is almost as dark as his clothing, narrows his eyes at York “– and Auberra,” and the younger woman, who’s tall and lanky with a tight ponytail, cracks a snaggle-toothed grin. “They’ll accompany you to the warehouse, and provide backup while you’re breaking in. You’re going in the jeep, Mulifi’s driving and Dunde rides with you, and Auberra will shadow on the bike. I’m riding with Ongeri, Ngumi, and Bassir, we’re the extraction team. Radio us once you the way to the goods is clear.” She presses a communicator in his hand, and York snaps it into place in his helmet. “Got it?”

York nods, D installing the communicator tech.

“Good. Let’s go.”

 _I have the three most advantageous routes to the warehouse mapped out,_ says D. _If they deviate significantly…_

 _Then we’ll need an exit strategy,_ says York grimly, getting into the car.

_Preferably one less dramatic than some of your past… escapades._

_Look, if you’re talking about jumping off the building, that was_ one time –

_It was an exceptionally foolish maneuver that succeeded only because of Agent Maine’s fortuitous timing –_

_We didn’t have a lot of options, okay? Besides, you weren’t even there –_

_You are fully aware that I can access any of your memories at will, and therefore that line of argument is irrelevant._

York sighs, doing his best not to appear unduly nervous or stressed. Mulifi’s already started driving the car, moving swiftly through the quiet streets, and Dunde’s in the passenger seat with a casual arm on the window sill, a shotgun held loosely in one hand. York can see Auberra on the motorcycle, driving in front of the car. “Did you see that heist some American gang pulled?” Mulifi says.

Dunde grunts, “No.”

“Yeah, it was in Los Samos or something, you know what they fucking did? They stole a bunch of gold and put it in a fucking _porta-potty_ and helicoptered it onto a train –”

“Mm.”

“I mean, how come we never do shit like that? Everything’s always this covert ops shit, which like, I get, it brings in the dough, but it means we gotta be all sneaky, we never get to do any of the real crazy shit –”

“I like dis bettah.”

“Yeah, that’s because you’re a weird motherfucker who’s always all creepy and shit, you like being – I dunno, _cryptic –_ ”

“Keep your eyes on de road.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah –”

Throat tight, York swallows and adjusts his seat. He really, _really_ wishes Savoyard let him have a weapon, but both Mulifi and Dunde seem to have plenty to spare – “Hey,” he says. “Any chance either of you could lend me a gun?”

“Sorry, no weapons for you,” says Mulifi. “Bosi’s orders. You’re not supposed be in any combat.”

_This is bad, D, this is bad –_

_You do not have to inform me._

_We’re not going that fast,_ says York. _We could open the door and jump out –_

_We would not make it far before Auberra caught up to us._

_We could – we could take her bike, make a run for it –_

“All right, here we are,” says Mulifi quietly, and parks the car. With the engine off, everything feels very still. She frowns, finger to the communicator in her ear. “Cameras are down. Let’s go.”

York steps out slowly, terrified there’s going to be a row of PFL soldiers waiting for him, but they’re the only ones on the street. The warehouse is small, concrete, with a glass front door.

“Lockpicker, you’re up,” whispers Mulifi.

 _It would seem,_ says D, as they approach the building, _that they genuinely need you to break into here, if nothing else._

_Thank God._

Viper had come by this morning to brief them, like Savoyard had said. York had then spent an hour watching him fumble through the information on a tablet, growing increasingly more flustered as he attempted to zoom in on the schematics of a building. But (with Savoyard’s assistance) York and Delta had gotten the information they needed.

York pulls his kit out of its thigh pouch, crouches in front of the door. First lock’s a standard encrypted, no problem. D speeds the process up considerably, however. “All right, we’re in,” says York, standing and opening the door. “Everyone, in.”

The team hurries inside after him, into what is a very slick lobby, with a shiny receptionist’s desk and several large crystal screens. There’s another door at the back of the lobby, heavy metal and plexiglass, and…

 _Holographic,_ sighs York. _Here we go._

In his defense, holographic locks are temperamental at the best of times, and the whole not-having-depth-perception thing makes it _really_ difficult to see them properly.

“This one might be a little while,” says York. “So make yourselves comfortable.”

They all just look at him. “Oh, take your time,” says Mulifi. “We’re not goin’ anywhere.”

Auberra snorts. “Yeah, Bosi’d have our heads on a plate if we left you,” she says. “ ‘Lifi, did he seem weird to you today? I mean, weirder than usual –”

Another bad sign. Sighing, York gets to work on the lock, being as careful and deliberate as he can. _Take it slow,_ he tells himself. _You got no reason to rush. In fact, it’s probably in your interests that you take as long a time to do it as possible._

“Nah, he seemed fine to me,” says Mulifi. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly fucking paying attention –”

“Quiet,” says Dunde. “Don’t distract de lockpickah.”

“Actually, it’s fine,” says York; he doesn’t mind them talking, he might get crucial information. But everyone falls silent, staring at him expectantly.

“I thought you were an infiltrations expert,” says Mulifi.

“I am,” says York, through gritted teeth.

“Then what’s taking you so damn long?”

York turns around slowly, looks at her. “You want to do this?”

“…No.”

“Then shut up.”

She does so, although soon he wishes she hadn’t; it’s too quiet in the room. He can hear his own breath and heartbeat loud and clear as he slowly traces his fingers through the glowing lock, D correcting his mistakes before he even knows he’s made them.

 _All clear,_ says D.

York stands, pushes the door open. “All right, come on,” and they all file past him into the dark hallway. Dunde and Auberra snap on flashlights, shine them over the concrete walls and metal doors. “We’re looking for Room 39B,” York says.

It’s about two-thirds of the way down the hall, and has not only a keypad but a retinal scanner and a thumbprint reader. _I wonder if the ‘additional resources’ Savoyard mentioned were some poor bastard’s eye and an finger,_ says York.

_Quite possibly._

Sighing, York crouches, cracking the cover off the keypad and starting to pick apart the tangle of multicolored wires. _Looks like we’re going to have to do this from the inside out._

D is grumbling. _If we could connect me directly to the hardware I could rewrite the program to unlock in less than a minute._

 _Yeah, well, we can’t, so figure something else out._ It’s got to look like York, and York only, is the one hacking in. Attaching a wire from the chip in his neck to the keypad is probably the least inconspicuous thing he could do.

The keypad is easy; he’s got that disarmed and blinking red in a couple of minutes. It’s the two biometric scanners that are the problem. _I could disable them no problem,_ York thinks. _But then the system would just go into failsafe and we’d never get the door open._ He can feel his team getting restless; Mulifi’s pacing, and Auberra keeps tapping her fingers on her gun. The only one who seems at ease is Dunde, who’s leaning casually against the wall. _If we could just somehow trick the scanners into thinking they’ve read the right info…_ Out loud, he says, “This is going to take some time, just so you know.”

“What a surprise,” says Mulifi, sitting down with a clunk.

York’s too busy problem-solving to even be annoyed at her. “Can you do biometric locks?” Viper had asked.

“Sure can,” York had said automatically. It wasn’t over-confidence this time. It was survival.

 _We can do this,_ says D.

How?

_I am currently working on that._

York takes a step back, frowning at the doorframe. _D…_ he says slowly, _we don’t need to hack the locks. We just need to hack the door._

_I admit, that did not occur to me._

All they need is a way into the doorframe’s wiring, but it seems to be pretty solidly encased behind concrete and metal. “A grenade would be nice,” York grumbles.

“Yeah, it would,” seconds Mulifi.

Dunde snorts. “It would draw too much attention.”

“Really? Even just a bit of C4, just to get the fucking door open –”

 _Personally, I find the unpredictability of explosives disadvantageous,_ says D.

York turns back to the team. “Anyone got a laser gun?” he says, holding out a hand. They all just stare at him. “Come on, anyone –”

“Can’t,” says Auberrra. “Bosi’s orders –”

“Look, I don’t give a fuck about what he ordered you to do,” says York. “My job is to get this door open, and I’m going to do it. Now are you going to give me a gun or not?”

Mulifi looks at Dunde; he nods, and she steps forward and presses a Covenant pistol into York’s palm. It’s a standard Type-25, perfect. “Don’t make me regret this,” she says.

 _Don’t push me._ “Thanks.” _D, I want to cut through enough to pull away a good-sized panel._

 _Understood._ Using York’s fingers, D calibrates the laser to the right intensity, grips the pistol, aims. York steps back, adjusting his grip on the trigger.

“Everyone, stand clear,” he says, and fires.

York actually prefers Covenant weaponry; it’s quieter and fires smoother than most bullet guns. Soon there’s three lines punched through the steel doorframe, their edges glowing orange. York hands the pistol back to Mulifi and steps over to the door. _Thank God for heat-resistant gloves_ , he says, grabs the metal in both hands, and _pulls._

There’s a terrifying moment where nothing actually happens – terrifying, because it drives home exactly how much muscle mass York’s lost – and then he pulls even harder and the metal shifts, and with a grunt York manages to wrench it back enough to expose the wires of the frame.

 _Oh, this is_ easy _,_ he crows in relief. _D, look, this is standard wiring like any old door –_

_I can see that._

York’s glad he’s wearing a helmet, because his grin is anything but professional. _D, we got this, we fucking got this!_

_I would advise against premature celebration, as we still have a considerable amount of obstacles to navigate._

_Shhhh._ York pulls out his wirecutters from his other breaking-and-entering pack, twirls them like a cowboy in a western. _We got this._

 _And then what?_ says D as York begins identifying and stripping the necessary wires. _We lead Viper’s agents in to the prize –_

 _– and once they’ve got it, they won’t need me._ York pauses, a wire sliding over the rough fingertips of his glove. _They’ll probably turn me in, or shoot me and then turn me in –_

He was going to wire the door to open, and stay open, but plans have changed. York begins furiously searching through the tangle for another wire, grabs his wirestrippers. _D, as long as these two wires are touching that door’s going to be open, when I put them together I’m going to need you to jam the team’s communicators and fuck up their hearing or something. Just incapacitate them while I get through the door._

_Understood. Are you ready?_

York’s got a wire pinched in each hand, plastic shielding scraped away to reveal bright copper. _Ready. Execute on my mark – three – two – one –_ mark.

There’s a high-pitched screech at the edges of York’s hearing and Mulifi, Dunde, and Auberra all cry out, weapons falling to the floor with a clatter. York touches the two wires together, sparks fly and the doors open – he dashes through, spins to see the team in various poses of discomfort, Dunde clawing at his communicator –

“Wait!” Dunde shouts, grabbing his gun.

York drops the wires and the doors slam shut just as bullet fire hammers into them.

 _That’s over eight inches of solid military-grade steel,_ says York, listening to the metallic thuds of impact. _Bitch._

 _York,_ says D, sharp. _You need to activate the failsafe on the lock before they duplicate what you did with the wires._

 _Shit, you’re right._ York runs to the internal panel, and how convenient, it’s one bright red button. He punches it and internal mechanisms whir, bolts clanging into place. _Well, now no one’s getting in._

 _Or out,_ says D.

 _Or out,_ agrees York, and turns around to look at the room he’s entered for the first time. He blinks in confusion, shakes his head, blinks again. _D, you seeing this?_

_I am._

They’re in a standard high-security vault, walls and ceiling metal beams and off-white concrete, but…

York is staring at what appears to be an orchard of orange trees, leaves glossy green and fruit round and sunshine-colored. The trees are just tall enough that they brush the ceiling, their gray-brown roots sinking into the gravelly dirt of the floor. In the bright white light of the overhead bulbs, everything is crystal-sharp, defined, and absolutely still.

Expecting to hear the crunch of gravel underfoot, York takes a hesitant step forward, but there’s only the slow clunk of his boot against the floor. They’ve stopped shooting outside; everything is deathly quiet except for his own breathing.

 _It’s a hologram,_ says D.

 _No shit,_ says York, but his sarcasm is shaky, because for a couple heart-stopping seconds he’d genuinely thought he was hallucinating. _But what the fuck is it for?_

 _Viper said there would be ‘unidentifiable security technology of the highest level,’_ says D. _Or rather, Savoyard did. I would surmise this is it._

York continues his slow walk down an aisle of trees, reaching a hand up to touch a leaf – his fingers pass right through it. Every now and then, the branches will shift as if under a gentle breeze, but as far as York can tell there’s no air currents. His footsteps echo in the concrete-and-metal space, all the louder because every sound he would associate with an orchard – birds, insects, wind through trees – is conspicuously absent.

It’s fucking spooky.

 _No, seriously, D,_ says York, stopping in the center and looking around. _What the hell is this?_

 _I believe it is what is beginning to be known as a_ panoramic lock _,_ says D. _Somewhere in this hologram is the key that, when activated, will allow access to whatever is being guarded._

York spins in a slow circle, looking for something that isn’t an orange tree. _So when you say something…_

 _It could be anything,_ says D. _One leaf on a tree, one fruit on a branch. One pebble on the ground, even._

 _Jesus._ York does a quick tally of how many trees in a row – at least a dozen, and there’s about a dozen rows. Almost a hundred and fifty trees, and all of them loaded with fruit and leaves. _D, you better figure out how to hack this, because there’s no way I’m finding that key._

There is a very long silence. _I cannot,_ says D.

 _What?_ York almost laughs – not because it’s funny, but because if that’s true he’s fucked. _D, what do you mean you can’t, this is your forte –_

_This is technology beyond me, at least at the present. I would need direct access to whatever server’s running the program –_

_And let me guess, it’s not in this room._

_Of course not. That would be too easy._

_You’re telling me,_ sighs York. _Okay, so then what?_ He rotates again, slowly, trying to look for something out of place. All the trees look maddeningly the same. _Hey, what if I just ran through and tried to touch as much of everything as possible –_

_I am afraid that would not work. This system requires precision to successfully activate it._

_Yeah, well, we’re running out of time._ He still doesn’t hear anything from the other side of those doors, but he has no doubt the team’s gone off to bring back Savoyard. And a grenade launcher. Or possibly a battering ram. _I can’t go around picking every goddamn fruit._

He starts pacing up and down the rows of trees, trying to scan for what might be the key. But he doesn’t have time to do a thorough search, and York has the horrible suspicion that he’d never notice what it is anyway. _Look, it’s got to be something whoever owns this could identify,_ he reasons. _It’s got to stand out –_

_Unlikely. It is much more probable that it is a specific tree identified by position, such as seven down, three over._

_Shit._ York stops dead, staring around him – how the hell is he supposed to figure this out, all the trees look exactly the same –

Wait a minute.

 _D,_ says York, staring at the tree in front of him, and then hurrying down the line. _D, what if there’s a pattern and they repeat? Analyze the trees, see if they repeat!_

 _Executing now,_ says D. York keeps moving through the false orchard, his vision flickering green as D analyzes for repetition. _I assume you’re looking for something that breaks the pattern?_

_Exactly._

_But there’s no reason there would be, in the interests of security it would make more sense for there not to be a break at all – even the pattern isn’t logical, they should all be randomly generated –_

_Nah nah nah, D, see there’s your problem._ York’s running giddy on relief and adrenaline and an empty stomach. _Sense. Humans don’t do things that make sense._

 _I am rapidly coming to understand that fact._ D pauses, running algorithms furiously. _However, that is not the case here. There is no discernible pattern as far as I can tell._

 _Fuck._ If York wasn’t wearing a helmet he’d be raking his hands through his hair in frustration; as it is, he stops dead and looks around him helplessly. He can hear muffled pounding from behind the doors – probably the stupid battering ram. _D, we gotta figure something out, and quick –_

_I am aware._

_What if we shut down power to everything, shortcircuited the holo –_

_Then we would be unable to trigger the unlocking mechanism._

_Fuuuuuuuuuck… How much longer until they get through that door?_

_Approximately twelve and a half minutes, unless they bring heavy explosives, in which case significantly less._

York lets loose a string of words that would make his poor Catholic mother blush. _Okay, it’s okay, we can figure this out –_

And then he sees it. _D._

_Yes?_

_There’s only one orange on that tree._ He sprints over, dashing through incorporeal trees, and skids to a halt by it. Yup, as far as he can tell from circling the tree, only one orange. _D, this is it, this has to be it –_

_Why? It’s just as likely to be any other tree –_

_No, no it’s not. Humans, D. We need things to remember._ Reaching out a hand, he grasps the orange as best he can and tugs.

It comes away in his hand.

The holograph ripples and fades and York’s left staring at his empty hand. _That was too easy,_ says D.

_I’m not complaining._

There’s a loud mechanical whirring sound. York looks over to see a large safe rising out of the floor, and could almost cry. _We gotta pick_ another _fucking lock –_

_We have approximately nine minutes._

York crouches in front of the safe; it’s got a standard keypad, at least. _Whatever’s in here had better be fucking worth it…_

Gunfire rings out behind the doors, muffled but unmistakable. York freezes, staring over his shoulder, expecting Viper’s goons to burst through any second. But they don’t. _D…_

_I suggest we crack this safe as soon as possible._

_And then what?_

_Use whatever’s inside to bargain our way out._

York tries to focus but his vision’s blurring, a headache developing in his left temple. _I hate this,_ he thinks fervently. _I hate this I hate this I hate this –_ Outside, more gunfire, and then ominous silence. The keypad beeps rapidly, exposed bulbs flashing green. York grabs the handle on the safe door and twists, yanking it open. There’s a crate inside, unmarked, and York drags it towards him. _All right,_ he says, prying it open. _What have we got here –_

 York opens the protective packaging to see two metal rectangles, matte black, each about four inches long. He picks one up, hefts it in his hand – it’s heavy, but there’s ports in the sides where it would obviously be plugged in. They’re not marked in any way, but York knows exactly what they are. He’s got two of them installed in his armor right now.

_D… this is freelancer tech. These are technology packs, like the ones that do my healing or North’s shield, or…_

_No wonder Kisigino and Viper were so desperate to get a hold of you,_ says D quietly. _They knew the prize was freelancer technology. They didn’t just want you as a lockpicker, they want your armor –_

 _And you._ What was it they’d overheard Mulifi say – _Does he have it?_ York sucks in a shallow breath, his hands shaking. _Shit, D, they’re looking for you, they’re looking for – Savoyard knew I was a freelancer all along, Jesus Christ –_

 _Don’t panic,_ snaps D. _We can’t afford that now._

 _You’re right._ York closes his eyes, breathes in and out slowly. _Okay, next step. D, any idea as to how much time we have left?_

_Considering how much circumstances outside might have changed, that is impossible to calculate._

_We can’t leave here without these._ York picks up the second techpack, and a sudden idea strikes him. _D, we don’t know what kind of tech is in here._

 _No, we don’t,_ says D, cautious.

Reaching around behind him, York unhooks one of the medic techpacks – that’s probably going to bite him in the butt later, but it’s barely functional at this point anyway, and desperate times mean desperate measures. _D, if I plug this in, can you run it?_

_I might be able, but I would strongly advise against it, we don’t know what state these are in –_

_Don’t do a full run, just enough to figure out what it does,_ says York, snapping it into place. _Hopefully it does something really cool like fire lasers or make me fly –_

 _Running now,_ says D. _It seems operational –_

And suddenly York’s head is filled with screaming static, he can’t see, he can’t hear, and what’s even worse is _he can’t hear D –_

 _D!_ he screams, crouched on the ground with one hand groping blindly for support. _D – Delta! DELTA!_

But there’s no answer, just overwhelming digital noise, and York tastes iron. The static is filling his mind, his body, he can’t move, and as he crumples to the floor, his vision blurring black, all he can think is, _they’ve got us…_

And then everything goes dark.


	7. 'Tis But a Scratch

_Carolina stands on the elevator, light trickling turquoise down her armor. She’s tense, ready for battle – York can see it in the way she carries her shoulders, the way she shifts her weight. He’s been fighting alongside her for so long now that he can interpret every little motion of hers, and yet somehow he feels like he doesn’t know her at all._

_“Carolina,” he says, and steps forward onto the elevator. “Let’s not do this. It doesn’t have to be this way.”_

_She has her pistols drawn and aimed at him in a heartbeat. “What are you doing here, why are you helping_ her _?” she says, outraged._

Chances of her attacking are sixty-two percent, _says D._

_“It’s not about her!” York tries to explain. It’s not about Tex, it’s never been about Tex – “I’m trying to do the right thing, you should too.”_

_“I_ am _doing the right thing,” growls Carolina. “I’m not deserting. She just wants your AI, York. She already went after Wyoming.”_

_It hurts York, achingly so, to see Carolina caught up in the lies. “Is that what they told you?”_

If she does, do you think we would be here? _says D._

_“I’m going to stop her.” Gears start whirring, and the elevator begins a slow descent. “I have to.” But Carolina’s lowered her weapons._

_“You don’t have to prove anything.” York puts away his rifle –_ Foolish, _says D, and York shushes him. They’re both running jittery on too much fear and not enough sleep. “Come on, let’s leave this place,” he says, walking towards Carolina. “We can get you help. We can get those damned things out of your head.”_ But not you, D. Never you. _“You can trust me.”_

_“Maybe.” And suddenly Carolina’s aiming a pistol straight at him, muzzle inches from his visor. “But you can’t trust me.”_

If you attempt to fight Agent Carolina without injuring her, she will win, _says D._

I know.

_York knocks the pistol out of his face, attempts a kick, but Carolina’s there and blocking him, and then they’re trading blows on the rapidly-descending elevator, kick-kick-block-hit, Carolina lands a blow on his solar plexus that knocks the wind out of him and he retaliates with a kick to the jaw –_

_Carolina grunts, soaring upwards with the zero gravity. Launching himself after her, York meets her in mid-air and they’re grappling again, spinning with momentum – “Carolina!” shouts York, and “Carolina, please –”_

_“Don’t make me do this, York!” she yells, and grabs a pistol._

_Instinct is a split-second of action and he grabs the gun, forcing it away from his head, and there’s a burst of light and a shrieking pain in his hand and he cries out, kicking savagely at Carolina._ D, administer pain medication – D? _D? Delta! He’s not there, where is he, where’s D –_

_His hand hurts like white-hot fire, he can’t move it, he won’t look at the hole through it, but he draws back his left hand and tries to hit Carolina. She bats it away, drives her whole weight into York so he’s pinned against a steel girder and he grunts, trying to throw her off._

_“York,” she says again, and the pistol’s back in her hand and pointed at him. “Don’t make me do this.”_

D, _he says helplessly, breathing shallow, all vision focused not on the gun in his face but at Carolina, her blank, emotionless helmet._ D, help me, I don’t know what to do – _But D doesn’t answer – why won’t he answer –_

_“Carolina,” croaks York._

_She just looks at him._

_Suddenly explosions sound, from deep within the ship. Carolina snaps her head around like a falcon. “Tex,” she says, voice thick with resentment._

_“Caroli –”_

_And then the world is shattering into molten heat and sound, blinding orange-yellow, the noise so loud York can’t hear it, and he’s spinning through space and his whole body hurts like it’s on fire –_

_He slams into hot metal, he can’t breathe, his head is ringing like it’ll burst. He can taste metallic blood, and there’s stabbing pain all up and down his left leg. “ ‘Lina…” he mumbles, trying to get his bearings. “D…”_

_The world is still incomprehensible, he groans and tries to open his eyes – there’s cracks in his visor, obscuring his vision. With what feels like a tremendous effort York pulls his helmet off. He’s… still in the elevator shaft, but there’s blackened twisted metal everywhere, gravity feels strange, his nostrils are filled with the scent of burning and blood –_

_“Aaaghhh,” he groans, trying to get his bearings. His left leg won’t support his weight, can barely move. York looks down to see it bent in far too many places and all the wrong angles…_

_He must have passed out, because suddenly he’s coming to out of a vast roaring darkness, and now he can feel a definite sense of movement to the ship – downwards._ We’re crashing, _he thinks. “CAROLINA!”_

_Gritting his teeth, he pushes against the contorted metal holding him in place, manages to claw his way out. His head swims and he retches, coughing up bile, but all he can smell is blood. “Carolina,” he coughs, hauling himself from handhold to handhold, fighting the momentum that wants to fling him to the ceiling. “Carolina –“_

_He sees it, a hint of turquoise among the wreckage, and his entire body goes cold. “No – no no no please no –”_

_Ignoring the pain, York scrambles over – everywhere around him are loud noises, the air still stinks of blood – and heaves aside jagged metal. It’s Carolina, half-twisted in cables, the right side of her body a blackened charred mess._

_“Oh God,” chokes York, fumbling at her helmet. “Oh God, Carolina, oh God –”_

_He can’t take her helmet off._

_It’s stuck._

_“Oh God,” whimpers York again – it’s fused, the heat of the explosion was enough to melt plastic to flesh and suddenly he’s horrified of what’s underneath – “no, no no no no –” his hands are shaking and his head spins and he can’t find D, where the_ hell _is D, the ship’s hurtling downwards and everything’s on fire and the scent of blood keeps getting stronger and stronger and stronger –_

York wakes with a gasp, chest heaving, he can’t breathe, he doesn’t know where he is, he can still smell blood –

“Easy, easy,” says a female voice. “It’s all right, you’re all right –”

 _D!_ he calls. _D, buddy, where are you, please –_

 _I’m right here,_ says D, faint, exhausted, but _present._ York exhales, everything in him going limp with relief.

 _Thank God,_ he sighs, eyes closed. _D, I thought you were gone…_

_So did I._

“Hey,” says another voice, this one baritone, male. “You okay?”

Shit. York snaps his eyes open to see Jahani and Kimene, the hot guy and the redheaded girl, Kisigino’s people, crouched over him. And he’s not wearing his helmet.

“I – wha –” he manages.

“Just take it easy,” says Jahani, a hand on York’s chest. “You were out for quite a while.”

Trying to breathe evenly, York swallows and looks around him. He’s lying on the floor in a small room lit only by a flashlight, with no windows as far as he can tell. Okay. This is great. He’s not panicking at all.

“It’s okay,” says Kimene. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

York glares at her.

“Really, we’re not,” says Jahani, holding up his hands. York refuses to be distracted by how attractive he is, or how Kimene’s long flowing hair is only a couple shades of red away from Carolina’s. “Swear to God.”

“You took off my helmet,” says York.

“Yeah, we kind of had too.” Kimene, seated cross-legged beside him, reaches over and picks up his helmet. “You were passed out for a while, we had to make sure you were okay. Besides…” She tips the helmet towards him so York can see inside. The entire area near the nose and mouth is streaked with dark red.

“Wha…?” York pulls off a glove and reaches a hand up to his face, gingerly dabs at his upper lip. His fingers come away stained dark crimson. Well, that explains the blood smell. “What did…”

“You tell me,” says Jahani. “We found you passed out in the vault, and when we took your helmet off you were mid-nosebleed. We were worried it wasn’t going to stop.”

“Or that you’d had a stroke or something,” says Kimene.

“Strokes don’t cause nosebleeds,” mumbles York. He wants to sit up. He feels far too helpless lying here on the ground. But when he tries, his head swims and he nearly topples back down.

“Hey, take it easy.” Jahani steadies him; this close York can see he’s got amber eyes and freckles. “You’ve been out a while.”

_D, how long is a while?_

_I… I can’t tell. I seem to have undergone a reset._

York goes ice-cold. _D, what do you mean?_

 _Something happened to my system, I was forced to go back and reset to prevent permanent damage._ D tries to sound clinical, but York can hear the faint thread of bewilderment underneath. _From accessing your memories, I see I tried to run a faulty program._

 _Yeah. Yeah, you did._ York doesn’t know if the techpacks are still with him and frankly, he doesn’t care. _You okay?_

D deliberates. _I seem to be._

 _Good._ Only then does York look up and see Jahani and Kimene are both watching him intently.

“Are you talking to your AI?” Kimene asks.

York freezes, staring at her. “How – how did –”

“Listen, we know you’re from Project Freelancer,” she says, and York braces himself for threats or accusations, but if anything she sounds sympathetic. “We all did – Kisigino, Viper, everyone. It’s why it was such a big deal getting you specifically to break into the joint.”

“Yeah, I… kinda figured that part out.”

“It wasn’t just about your armor or your abilities,” says Jahani, seated opposite Kimene. “It was about using you as a scapegoat. The idea was for you to break in, take the goods, and then you would get captured and turned in, for a reward. The take wasn’t just the technology, it was the money from your capture as well.”

“And both Viper and Kisigino had this same plan?” says York, frowning.

Jahani and Kimene look at each other, shrug. “More or less,” says Kimene. “I know Kisigino was contemplating selling the tech, pocketing the money from that, and then stealing it back and turning it in to PFL for an additional reward. But yeah, this heist was just as much about stealing you – and that thing in your head – as it was the technology.”

“Don’t talk about D like that,” growls York involuntarily.

Kimene’s eyes widen. “All right, sorry.”

“How did you know I have him?”

Jahani shrugs. “We guessed. We knew there was a possibility, and then just now when you kind of went all quiet, we figured you were talking to it – him, sorry, him.”

“And how’d you get us out of the warehouse?”

“Blew the whole back wall off and drove you out,” says Kimene, pragmatic. “Thankfully by that time security’d already been blown so we didn’t have to worry about it.”

York’s head aches with a pounding intensity. “So you – you knew about the break-in?”

Jahani snorts. “Of course. We’re professionals.”

 _They’re smart,_ says D.

_Too smart._

“So now what?” says York, wiping more dried blood off his face, and snorts, trying to clear his nose. “You go haul me off to Kisigino?”

Jahani and Kimene trade glances again. “Actually, no,” says Kimene. “We had a different idea in mind.”

\--

It turns out that Jahani and Kimene aren't any more enthusiastic about working for Kisigino than York was.

“It was – it was all right, for a while,” says Kimene, looking over at Jahani. He shrugs in corroboration. “I mean, it was work, and we both needed it –”

“Security, too,” says Jahani.

“Yeah,” says Kimene. She’s sitting with knees akimbo, soles of her feet pressed together. “Security. Well, anyway, it was okay for a while, and then – and then things started getting weird…”

“This whole stupid rivalry with Viper started up,” says Jahani. “And it used to be get the job done first, fuck Viper second, but now things are flipped around and it’s making life real dangerous for the rest of us.”

“Yeah.” Kimene’s brow furrows in worry, her skin ivory-yellow in the electric light. “So there went security, and the money wasn’t worth it anymore. So we’re bailing.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” says York stubbornly. He kind of does, actually, but he wants to hear them say it.

Kimene sighs condescendingly, patting his knee; York stiffens instantly. “It’s not you, it’s the goods,” she says. “Our plan is to get the hell out of this city, sell the tech, and use the money to start a new life.”

“But then why –”

“Are you here and breathing? Good question.” Jahani shifts his weight, totally at ease, but it doesn’t escape York’s attention that one of his hands is now resting by the knife at his thigh. “Well, we’ve got one – whatever they are.” He nods towards a rectangular packet next to Kimene. “But we’re missing the second. And right now you’re the only one who knows where it is.”

 _They don’t know they’re techpacks,_ says York. _They know they’re PFL tech, but they have no clue what they actually do. And they don’t know about the one in my armor… What shape is that thing in?_

 _I don’t know,_ says D. _To be perfectly honest, I am less than willing to find out._

_No, no, good call._

“So,” says Kimene, and although she’s smiling brightly it’s not what York would call _friendly_. “Where is it?”

His head aches worse than any hangover he’s had, his mouth is dry, his nose clogged with dried blood, and he’s starving. The last thing he wants to do right now is negotiate.

 _I can administer pain medication for the headache,_ says D. _The rest I regret I am unable to help with right now._

 _It’s fine._ York knows D well enough to hear the guilt in his voice, guilt that he let York down. _You did fine, buddy. S’not your fault._

_I should have known better._

_You did. It was my idea to run the damn thing, remember?_

_I should have –_

_It’s okay, D. Promise._ He looks back at Jahani and Kimene. “You really think I’ll just give it to you without something in return?”

“No,” sighs Kimene. “But it was worth a shot.”

“What do you want?” says Jahani, eyes narrowed.

 _This is your chance,_ says York to himself. _Don’t fuck this up._ “Security,” he says.

Jahani and Kimene both look at him, waiting for him to speak. “Go on,” says Jahani.

“I want to leave with you guys. I want to get out of this festering rathole of a city where apparently everyone and their mother knows who I am and go back to living a life of homeless anonymity. I want you two to promise that you will not turn me in to PFL yourselves, and that includes D _and_ my armor.” He stops, trying to see if he’s left out any loopholes. “When we get to wherever we’re going and I give you the tech and walk away, I want to walk away like none of this ever happened. Got it?”

Jahani shrugs. “Fine by me. We’ll probably need your help leaving anyway.”

On the other hand, Kimene is watching him intently. “We wouldn’t turn you in,” she says softly. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but it’s true. We’re not that kind of people.”

 _I think they’re telling the truth,_ says D. _Maybe._

“What do you mean, you’re not that kind of people?” says York. “You’re hired mercenaries for a crime lord.”

“Ehhh, details,” says Jahani, with a hint of a grin. “I promise, though, if you stick to your end of the bargain we’ll stick to ours.” And he holds out a hand.

York eyes it warily. _If I make this deal, and they break it, we’re screwed._

 _But your other options are not promising,_ says D. _If you disagree, they could very easily knock us out, dismantle the armor and find the tech, and turn us in to PFL in separate components._

Sighing heavily, York shakes Jahani’s hand, Jahani breaking into a full-fledged grin that is downright disarming. “Great,” he says. “You made the right choice, Agent York.”

York stiffens, fingers gripping Jahani’s. “How do you know my name?” he demands.

“It wasn’t that hard to figure out,” says Jahani. “There’s a BOLO out for you, did you know that?”

“Yes,” says York through gritted teeth.

“I’d appreciate it if you let go of my partner’s hand, please,” murmurs Kimene.

York lets go; Jahani flexes his fingers, wincing, and scoots closer to Kimene. “Sorry,” he says. “I guess I should just call you Foxtrot then?”

“Yeah,” says York, D agreeing in his head. “Yeah, you should.”


	8. Fury Road

_This time Tex sends York to find the Director, while she goes off to cause distractions. And so he finds himself in an exit bay, a dozen unconscious solders scattered around him, facing off against South and her fucking_ rocket launcher _. Seriously, where did she even get that?  
_

_“You think you’re so fucking awesome, don’t you, York?” she snarls. “Well, let me ask you something. Who’s got the rocket launcher now, you son of a bitch?”_

_“Aw, shit,” groans York._

_South fires off rocket after rocket and York’s dodging, running and rolling to D’s barked orders, right, left_ , duck –

_There’s machine gun fire from behind him and York ducks, but it’s the rockets that get shot into oblivion. Turning around, he sees North, standing with two semiautomatics over his shoulders. “Hey, guys,” he says, casual, walking forwards. “What seems to be the problem?”_

_“North, you know what the problem is!” snaps South. “That bitch Tex stabbed us in the back, and he’s helping her! Whose side are you on, brother?”_

_North cocks his guns, aiming them at South. “York, why don’t you get out of here?” he says, still too casual. “I need to have a little chat with my sister.”_

_“North,” says York. “You don’t have to do this.”_

_“Go,” says North, and suddenly York knows exactly how much icy anger is underneath that calm exterior. Hairs rise on the back of his neck. “This is a family matter.”_

We need to go, _says D._

_“North,” says York again, and stops, because there’s a million and one things he needs to say but this isn’t the time, isn’t the place, and he’s not even sure he knows how to put them into words. “I’m sorry –”_

_“It’s okay,” says North, softer, and there’s definite regret in his voice. “Just go.”_

_“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says South, and fires._

\--

“Mogadishu,” says York. “Really?”

“Yeah,” says Kimene, grunting as she lifts a suitcase into the back of the stolen sedan. Apparently the only personal vehicles she or Jahani own are motorcycles, and anything they take from Kisigino will be too easy to track. “Why, what’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” says York. He hasn’t heard much about the city one way or the other, other than it’s the capitol of Somalia and doing fairly well as far as large cities go. He has the vague idea it’s got a shipping-based economy. “Just seems kind of random.”

“Well, we can get there in two days, and it’s out of country so the chances Kisigino or Viper or anyone else can get to us are a lot lower.” Kimene slams the trunk shut and brushes off her hands, afternoon sunlight sparking copper on her hair and gleaming on the bronze hood of the car. “Plus Jahani’s got family there.”

“I _think_ I do,” he says, walking up with a duffel and two backpacks slung over his shoulders. “I did a few years ago, I don’t know if they’re still there.”

“Of course they’re still there, why wouldn’t they be?”

Jahani shrugs, dumping bags into the backseat. “Shit happens.”

 _Mogadishu, known locally as Xamar, is the largest and capital city of Somalia,_ says D. _Located in the coastal Banaadir region on the Indian Ocean, the city has served as an important port for centuries. It is one thousand, three hundred and sixty-five kilometers from Voi, and it will take approximately nineteen hours to drive there._

 _So yeah, a couple day’s hard drive,_ says York. _A day if we don’t stop. I assume it’s all through desert?_

_More or less._

“So we can get to Liboi by tomorrow night if we leave first thing in the morning,” says Kimene, who’s seated on the trunk of the car and looking down at her tablet. “I say we spend the night there and then worry about crossing the border in the morning, after we’ve had a rest.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” says York. Shit, he didn’t even think about that, they’re going to want papers and ID and –

Jahani and Kimene trade a glance, shrug. “We’ll see,” she says. “That depends on how quickly Kisigino realizes we’re gone and starts pulling strings. Otherwise…”

“I think we’ll be okay,” says Jahani, leaning against the car. “Unless you foresee problems.”

“Well, I kind of left my passport at home,” says York wryly. “And besides –”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” says Kimene breezily. “We can make you a new one.”

“– and that whole ‘not-showing-my-face-in-public’ thing won’t help either.”

“We’ll stick you in the trunk, then,” says Jahani. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out. We’ve got cash.”

“I’m very reassured.”

“You should be,” says Kimene brightly. “We’re professionals, remember? We got this.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” says Jahani affectionately, walking back around the car, and as he passes Kimene he casually drops a kiss on the top of her head; Kimene watches him go back to the apartment, and when she turns back to York she’s smiling, only slightly self-conscious.

“Well,” she says, smirking a little. “I guess that cat’s out of the bag.”

_Huh, so they’re a couple. That actually explains a lot._

_Was that not obvious to you before?_

_... No, D._

“Anyway,” says Kimene, hopping down off the car. “Come on, how about one last meal in Voi?”

“Sounds great,” says York. “I’m starving.”

_\--_

They drive out at around seven in the morning, with car full of Jahani and Kimene’s possessions and the sky a hazy white-blue. York watches from the backseat as city scenery passes by, skyscrapers and warehouses gradually devolving to crowed apartment complexes, and then bungalows with overgrown yards. The streets are all but deserted; the only life York’s seen about is a couple of homeless people and a rail-thin dog. But then again, that’s Voi. Half the buildings themselves are empty and abandoned.

“We could stop in Bangali for lunch,” says Kimene, yawning. “Or maybe Garissa?”

“Maybe,” says Jahani, who’s driving. “We’ll see when we get closer.”

It’s surreally casual – there’s no one chasing them, no bullet fire, no one menacing in the rear view mirror. It feels more like a road trip than anything else, and York doesn’t like it.

 _Would you be more comfortable if we were under fire?_ asks D.

 _I would, actually, yes,_ says York. _This is weird, it’s too peaceful. And I hate being a third wheel._

D’s attention flicks to Jahani and Kimene; Jahani, who’s driving with both hands on the wheel, and Kimene, who’s curled up in her seat and looks half-asleep. _Yes,_ he says. _I can see how their interactions would make you uncomfortable._

_Not the point, D._

_Then what is causing your unease?_

_I’m not used to being single, you know? I’m not used to being the one without some kind of action going on…_

There is silence as D processes this. _But you have not been in a committed relationship since I was paired with you, nor for some time before that._

 _I… you’re missing the point, D,_ says York wearily. _It was a joke._

_Ah, I see. I will compare it to the other ‘jokes’ you have told me, and see if I can find what you refer to as a ‘sense of humor.’_

There’s a beat of silence. _D,_ says York, _I’m so proud of you…_

Numbers can’t be smug, but D’s getting pretty damn close. _Why thank you._

_I mean it, buddy, this is the most beautiful moment of my entire life –_

_I am pleased that I was able to make such an impression on you._

_I'm honest-to-God welling up here._ He sniffs for dramatic effect. _I’m so proud…_

 _All right,_ says D. _Let’s not get emotional._

\--

The hours slip away under the tires of the car, mile after mile of cracked pavement and yellow sand passing by. York watches it go by, sweating slightly into his armor despite the air conditioning, and lets the monotony lull him into a doze. D’s amusing himself by doing calculations, which York somehow finds just as soothing…

At some point he must have genuinely fallen asleep, because D’s waking him up. _Listen,_ D says. _They’re talking about you._

“– you can’t even tell,” Kimene is saying, worried.

“Hey, Foxtrot,” says Jahani. “You asleep back there?”

Some defense mechanism prompts York to stay silent and unmoving.

“See, you have no idea,” frets Kimene. “He could be passed out or even dead, remember that stroke he had –”

 _I did not have a stroke_ , York grumbles.

“Here,” says Jahani, wrenching the car over, and it jolts through a pothole. York grunts and flops a bit, taking care to stay limp. “See? He’s alive.”

“Can’t even tell under that armor,” Kimene mumbles. York opens her eyes to see her turning back to face the front, knees drawn up in front of her. For a while the only sounds are the motor running and wheels turning, and then she says, “Do you think he’s okay?”

“Okay how?” says Jahani cautiously.

“You know.” Kimene wraps her arms around her knees, looks at Jahani. “Mentally.”

York catches a glimpse of Jahani’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he looks back at him. “I dunno,” says Jahani. “I kinda doubt it though, considering he’s a freelancer. Honestly, I’m surprised he’s as functional as he is.”

“What do you think they _did_ to them?”

“You mean besides stick computer programs in their heads and fuck with their brains?” Jahani’s tone is acid. “I dunno. Nothing good, I bet.”

It’s very strange to hear Project Freelancer discussed like this, through the eyes of outsiders. York wonders how the rest of the world sees them, what circulated through the rumor mill, how much of the truth is actually out there. But Jahani’s right – they _did_ fuck with his brain, with all their brains. The Director’s power struggles and the Counselor’s mind games were just as effective and just as damaging as any needle or scalpel. Carolina is proof of that.

“That can’t be legal,” says Kimene quietly.

“So? It’s fucking UNSC, they can do whatever the hell they want. Who’s going to stop them?”

“Well, maybe if enough people knew about it –”

“That was rhetorical.”

“I know,” says Kimene, and sticks her tongue out at him. “Still, it’s a possibility.”

“I dunno.” Jahani shrugs. “Project Freelancer must be pretty wrecked if they’ve got agents running around planetside with all their tech. I don’t think they’re doing too good.”

“Maybe that’s what they _want_ you to think.”

Jahani snorts, but it’s affectionate. “Uh-huh, sure.”

“No, really, what if they’re just going even more secret and this is their cover story –”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” The car clunks heavily as it goes over another pothole. “None of these programs are smart enough to pull something off like that.”

“You just hate the government,” says Kimene.

“Damn straight I do!” says Jahani heatedly, slapping the steering wheel for emphasis. “They keep taking all the power for themselves while fucking over the common man –”

He reminds York of CT, somehow, the youthful righteousness and burning desire to see the world made right, as yet untainted by the realization that pretty much everything is and will continue to be shit. Jahani’s probably not as naive as she was, though, considering his line of work.

“I dunno,” says Kimene sadly. “I think we’re plenty good at screwing each other over without the government’s help.”

Aaaand _there’s_ the cynicism. Well, kind of. It must be a personal thing, because Jahani’s looking at Kimene with evident sympathy and he takes her hand. “I know,” he says softly.

This is starting to get a little too intimate for comfort, and York’s wishing he was actually asleep, when Jahani says, “Hey, look up the next gas station, we should probably stop soon.”

“Oh yeah,” says Kimene, pulling out her tablet. “I have to pee, too.”

\--

The gas station’s a little place in the middle of nowhere, just some pumps and a convenience store and a questionable souvenir shop surrounded by flat dusty land that stretches as far as the eye can see, although there is a haze on the horizon that might be the coast with enough wishful thinking. York doesn’t realize how cramped he’s been until he gets out of the car and stretches, wishing he could crack his back while still in the armor. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” says Jahani. “You get enough rest?”

“Yeah, no thanks to your driving,” says York. “What, did you _try_ to hit every pothole between here and Voi?” D is present in the back of his mind, silent but very much watching and analyzing.

Jahani snorts, leaning against the car; Kimene’s gone inside the store, to pay for the gas and presumably relieve herself. “Sorry, Mr. Hotshot Driver,” he says. “Maybe if we get to a bridge I’ll let you drive off of it.”

“I didn’t do that for fun, you know.”

“Really? I would’ve.” Jahani steps over to the pump, selects a gas type. “It looked fucking awesome.”

“Yeah, it kinda was,” agrees York.

“You ever do anything like that with Project Freelancer?”

“Kind of,” says York. He’s very grateful to be under the shade of the gas pump, as the heat radiating off the asphalt is powerful enough; in the distance, the road ripples with heat shimmer. “I jumped off a skyscraper once.”

“No shit?” Jahani’s eyes widen. “What, with a parachute?”

“Nope.”

“How the hell’d you survive?”

Jahani can’t see it, but York’s grinning at the memory. “Dumb luck, I guess,” he says. “A buddy of mine caught us in a jeep.”

“Oh, okay.” Jahani looks like he’s unsure of whether or not to believe York. “Why’d you jump off in the first place?”

“Because the skyscraper was about to explode.”

Jahani just props himself against the gas pump and looks at York. “And why was the skyscraper about to explode?”

“We fired a missile at it.”

“Jesus.” Jahani looks around as Kimene joins them, rubbing her hands, and York catches a whiff of hand sanitizer. “Hey,” Jahani says to her.

“Hey,” she returns. “What’s up?”

“Foxtrot’s telling some bullshit story about how he and his freelancer buddies jumped off a building.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, it’s hardly bullshit,” says York. “It was on the news.”

 _I am not sure it adheres to proper storytelling format, however,_ says D. _Generally when one tells a story it is expected they start at the beginning._

Kimene frowns at York. “You jumped off a skyscraper? Why?”

“Because apparently Project Freelancer was going to blow it up,” says Jahani, before York can answer. “Why attack it, though? What’d it do to you guys?”

“We were stealing something from it,” says York. “Things stopped going according to plan.”

“Okay,” says Jahani, nodding, eyes wide again. “Sure. Usually when we fuck up a heist we just leave as fast as we can, but I guess blowing up the entire crime scene works too.”

“Hey, don’t judge, you weren’t there.”

"What were you stealing?"

There's no reason for secrecy now. "A Huragok."

"No _shit,_ " says Jahani.

“Wait,” says Kimene. “Was this on Reach?”

“Uhhh…” _D?_

_Yes, it was._

“Yeah.”

“I remember that, it _was_ on the news,” says Kimene. “That was you guys? The news anchor said it was ‘unidentified special forces.’”

“Probably couldn’t say it was UNSC-funded soldiers,” says Jahani bitterly, yanking the nozzle out of the car. “Wouldn’t want the public to know what was happening to their tax money.”

“Plenty of them knew,” says York mildly. “Who do you think the Insurrectionists were?”

Jahani and Kimene are both looking at him oddly. “They were UNSC, too,” Jahani says. “Hired out to Charon Industries, but still. What, you didn’t know?”

“ _No._ ” _D, what the fuck? I thought they were some kind of resistance viva-la-revolución-type deal –_ “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. I think that information came out what five, six months ago –”

“I was busy then,” says York distantly, thinking of spaceship crashes and blood on the snow.

“Well, yeah,” says Kimene. “They were just hired guns. Dunno _why_ Charon had such a big bone to pick with Project Freelancer, but still…”

“Shit.” He’s not thinking about Charon, he’s thinking about CT, who went off and got killed because she believed she was doing the right thing for humanity. Did she know? “Guess that puts a spin on things.”

“I guess,” says Jahani. “All right, the tank’s filled up, we all good to go? No one needs to piss or buy water or beef jerky or something?”

“Nah, I’m good,” says Kimene, getting into the driver’s seat. “Foxtrot?”

“I’m good too,” he says, sliding into the back seat. Actually hunger is beginning to gnaw away at him again, but he doesn’t trust gas station food, especially not out of dumps like this. “Let’s roll out.”

\--

They’re maybe an hour away from the gas station when Kimene checks her rear view mirror and sees something that makes her frown. “Hey, Jahani,” she says. “Are there guys behind us?”

Jahani twists around in his seat to look out the rear window and York helpfully leans out of the way. “I – maybe,” he says, frowning as well. York turns around to look too, and sees some indistinguishable dark shapes amidst the heat shimmer. “Possibly? I can’t tell for sure.”

“Well, let’s not find out,” says Kimene grimly, and steps on the gas.

 _D?_ asks York, still watching them. _Getting anything?_

 _Not yet, they’re too far away,_ he says. _Probability indicates that they are indeed vehicles, and several._

 _Great._ There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of York’s stomach, for all he griped that he was more comfortable getting shot at earlier. _D, we can’t outrun them, we’re in a fucking_ sedan.

_I am aware of that fact._

_Well, what do you suggest we do?_

_I am currently working on that now._

“Hey Foxtrot, see anything?” calls Kimene.

“Not really,” says York. “They still just look like blurs.”

“What’s the nearest town?” Kimene asks.

“Uhh, that would be Nguni,” says Jahani, who York assumes is looking at the tablet. “It’s an hour away from here, at least.”

“They’ll catch up to us before then,” says Kimene, matter-of-fact. She accelerates even more, although the car’s speed combined with the uneven road is making York’s teeth rattle. “You couldn’t have stolen a Ferrari or something?”

“You said something inconspicuous,” snaps Jahani. “This is inconspicuous.”

“Yeah, and a fat lot of good it’s doing us now,” she growls.

_York, I believe that is one armored car and two motorcyles._

“D says it’s one armored car and two motorbikes,” says York. “And by probably he means he’s pretty damn sure, he just wants to leave margin for error in the off chance that he’s wrong.” No response from either Jahani or Kimene, and York turns back to them. Jahani’s staring at him. “What?”

“Who’s D?” asks Jahani.

“Delta,” says York. “My AI.”

 _I would introduce myself in person, but now does not seem like the time,_ says D.

_No, definitely not._

Jahani’s still staring at York. “It – he, sorry – he talks to you?”

“Yeah,” says York. “Can’t get him to shut up, actually.”

_That is not true._

“We can discuss AI later, we got a bigger problem on our hands,” says Kimene through gritted teeth. The car flies over a bump and lands with a bone-shaking jolt. “Jahani, we’re gonna have to shoot.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs, almost drowned out by the sound of engine and rattling car parts, and pulls out what looks like two bulletproof vests from by his feet. “I was really hoping we wouldn’t have to, though. Foxtrot, you mind grabbing the box out from under your seat?”

Bending down, York pulls out a heavy black box with a lock and a keypad and hands it to Jahani, who promptly punches in the code and opens it to reveal several handguns and a whole lot of ammo. _So that was under my seat the entire time?_ says York. _That’s… oddly trusting of them._

 _They did not inform you it was there, however,_ says D. _Also the motorcycles are gaining speed, I am almost positive there are two of them._

“D says there’s definitely two motorcycles,” York reports. “At least in front?”

“Kisigino didn’t think to send out more? Shit, maybe they don’t need us as much as we thought they did,” says Jahani, loading a semiauto pistol and holding it out to York. Kimene’s somehow managing to put her vest on while still driving. “You have total permission to bash the back windshield open and start shooting.”

“Gotcha,” says York. _D, the way this car is bouncing around, I’m counting on you to keep my aim steady._

_Consider it executed._

“All right, so what’s the plan?” says Kimene, who has grabbed heavy-duty goggles from somewhere and tosses a pair at Jahani. “Just gun them down once they’re in range?”

“Yeah, you got a better idea?” Jahani shoves the clip into his own gun with a sharp _click._

“No, but maybe the _freelancer_ does,” snaps Kimene, shooting York an angry glance from behind her eye protection. “Come on, any ideas, military man?”

_Tension levels in this car are abnormally high, it would be much better if they were lowered immediately –_

_Not helping, D._ “Give me a second, I’m working on it,” he says.

“To be honest, it’s not the bikes I’m worried about so much as the armored car,” says Jahani, twisting around to look behind them again and buckling his vest. “It’s bound to have a turret, and our guns aren’t even going to scratch it.”

“You really should have brought a fucking flamethrower or grenades or something,” says York grimly. The vehicles are definitely closer, the motorcycles approaching way too fast for his liking –

“Sorry I didn’t pack my rocket launcher, it didn’t fit in the trunk,” snarls Kimene. “You boys better start shooting soon before the engine overheats –”

Jahani puts on his goggles, gives York a nod, and York bashes his elbow into the rear window once, twice, three times, and it shatters into glass particles, the car suddenly full of dust and the smell of baked asphalt. Jahani’s rolling down his window, leaning out of it, and York takes careful aim out the back. “Motorcycle on the right, calling it,” he says. “I’ll signal when they’re in range, fire then. Sync and mark, sync!”

“What?” shouts Jahani. “I got the first part, what about a sync?”

“Never mind!” York settles into position, steadies his aim. “Just fire when I tell you to!” _D, if you would be so kind._

 _Executing steady aim now,_ says D. _Motorcycles approaching at approximately eighty-five miles per hour. They will be within optimal firing range in six – five – four –_

Bullets strike the car with loud metallic pings and Kimene shrieks and jerks the steering wheel. “FIRE!” yells York, and does.

D’s aiming for the tire and sure enough all three shots hit home – _thirty-seven shots left –_ the motorcycle on the right flips spectacularly and the armored car has to swerve drastically to avoid it. The bike lands, practically on its rider, D fires off another five shots – _thirty-two left_ – and then the armored car’s in the way. Well, with any luck they hit something vital and the bike will explode –

“Got him!” yells Jahani, just as machine gunfire starts hammering into the car. Everyone ducks, the car whining as Kimene presses it to go even faster and starts zigzagging.

York, flattened against the seat, pops up to fire a couple experimental shots before ducking down again. _D, now would be a real good time for some ideas._

_Innovation is much more your forte, I merely provide the logic –_

“What do we do?” screams Kimene.

“Turn the car around!” yells York. “Drive at them!”

“You’re insane!” Jahani has to shout to be heard over more bullet fire, Kimene just barely dodging it. “This is a sedan, not a war rig –”

“Just do it!” shouts York. “Just drive at them and don’t get shot –”

“Oh yeah, that’ll be easy –” Kimene shouts back.

“– and let me do the rest!”

_York, I know what you are planning, and chances of success are only forty-four point seven percent –_

_And what’s the chances of us surviving if we keep driving like this?_

_Seven point six percent,_ says D, without missing a beat.

 _Exactly._ “Just trust me!” says York. “Come on, this is what I’m fucking trained to do!”

With a squeal of brakes Kimene wrenches the car around, doing a furious sidewinder as she rockets towards the armored car. “If this gets me killed I am going to be seriously upset!”

“You’re not gonna die!” York grabs a second and third handgun, starts hauling himself out through the back window. “Not if I can help it.”

Kimene’s zooming back and forth across the road and she’s doing a great job of evading bullets but making it hard for York to get a steady grip – gritting his teeth, he pulls himself up and clings to the roof of the car. The armored car, a big black monstrous thing, is barreling towards them and that is one hell of a minigun on top –

_One on top, two in the cab, unknown how many else –_

_D, calculate jump time and tell me go, then watch my left –_

_Of course, executing now. Jump in four – three – two – one – now!_

Kimene fishtails, just avoiding the armored car and York uses the momentum to throw himself at it, hurtles directly into the railing and grunts with impact, clinging on –

_Enemy at eleven o’clock –_

York hauls himself up and body slams the guy, they both hit the platform and he grabs his head, hits it against the floor again and again –

_Target stunned._

The armored car wheels around with screeching brakes, York clinging for dear life as the stunned man goes tumbling off. Okay, there’s the hatch to the interior, if he can just get to it –

It opens and out rises the head and shoulders of a giant burly bruiser, hulking and genderless under helmet and body armor. _Okay,_ says York, watching them climb out of the hatch like something from a monster movie. _D, not interested in getting in a fist fight, where’s their weak spots –_

_Armor is thinnest at the joints –_

York grabs one of his pistols and aims, slowly edging away – _Come on, you fuck, get out of the hatch, there’s no way I’m dragging you out of it –_

The bruiser gets both feet out and takes a step towards York, who fires two shots directly at their inner thigh.

Howling and clutching their groin, the bruiser collapses, and York sprints forward, yanks their helmet up and fires another shot into the exposed skin of their neck. _D, sitrep on Jahani and Kimene –_

_Still driving, although they appear to be rapidly decelerating –_

_Shit, the car’s probably overheating –_ York heaves the bruiser aside, yanks open the hatch into the car, inside there’s a driver and another bruiser –

_Jahani and Kimene’s car has stopped, we are rapidly approaching –_

York fires into the cab at random, there’s bullet pings and sparks fly and the driver shouts but keeps driving, the other person grabs their gun and fires at York and he ducks –

_York, at this current speed and trajectory we will not have enough time to stop before hitting the sedan –_

_How much time until collision?_

_Four seconds – three –_

York hurls himself into the cab with his shoulder in the driver’s neck, kicks the bruiser in the face and grabs the wheel, spins it as hard as he can to the left –

The car goes veering off the road and somehow York’s still got a hand on the wheel, he keeps kicking the bruiser in the face while trying to keep the driver pinned and D’s shouting _Alarm, velocity and trajectory unsafe –_

There’s a tremendous jolt as the car hits something and then they’re airborne and the car lands with a tremendous shuddering impact, tumbling furiously, it’s a jumble of bodies and glass and metal –

– _and he’s on the_ Mother of Invention _as it hurtles through space, body aching as he gets thrown against hard steel –_

– and York kicks out and slams an elbow into what D says is the driver and he’s lost a gun but someone’s firing and sudden pain shoots up his calf –

– _and he can smell the fire from explosions and the g-forces are dragging at his body –_

– and the car rolls to a halt on its side and York kicks the free door open, the one bruiser’s out cold but the driver yells and throws himself at York, toppling them both into the sand, and York grabs tight and rolls them over so he’s straddling the driver and there’s a gun in his hand and he yanks the driver’s helmet up to expose his neck and shoves the gun muzzle up under his jaw –

– _the ship lands with a crash so great it bursts through him and all he knows is everything hurts and smells of fire and he thinks he can hear Carolina screaming –_

– and York fires again and again and again, bullet after bullet until all that’s left inside the helmet is a bloody, pulpy mess and he doesn't stop, just keeps pulling the trigger, until all the gun does is click uselessly.

 _There are no shots left, York,_ says D quietly.

York stares down at what used to be the driver, realizes there’s blood spattered all over his hands and legs and chest and visor. Dropping the gun, York stands slowly, his breath rasping unsteadily, everything so quiet now after the pandemonium of gunshots and metal…

 _D…_ he says faintly. His hands are shaking.

_You are all right. There is no danger present._

“Foxtrot!” Kimene comes running up, closely followed by Jahani. “Are you okay – oh…” She stops, staring down at the driver’s body. “Oh my God…”

Jahani’s eyes flick from the body up to York, who doesn’t miss how his grip tightens on his gun. “Hey, Foxtrot,” he says slowly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” says York, holding his hands up. “Yeah, I’m fine. I promise. I’m good now.” He swallows hard, trying to get a grip on himself. His leg hurts, he realizes, quite a lot, and he looks down to see blood trickling down his leg and soaking into the sand. _Oh…_

 _You received one bullet wound to the calf,_ says D. _I can administer pain medication, if you require._

 _Yeah,_ says York dazedly. _Do that._

“Foxtrot?” says Kimene. “We need to leave as soon as the engine cools, are you – are you good to go?”

York takes another deep breath, takes an experimental step on his wounded leg. It’ll hold for now. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”


	9. Border Control

_He stumbles out of the wreckage of the ship, coughing, D hissing statistics in his ear. The air swirls with snow, jagged mountains towering around them. On the edge of the cliff York sees them, two figures, one monstrous in white armor, the other turquoise and held up by her throat –_

_“NO!” shouts York, scrambling towards them, struggling to get his footing. His boots slip in the mushy snow, D mapping the quickest trajectory for him. As he nears he can see Carolina’s helmet is off, her red hair whipping in the wind, and there’s blood on the snow –_

_With a roar York crashes into Maine, sending all three of them toppling to the ground. Before Maine can recover York’s straddling him, got his head gripped in both hands, and York just_ slams _Maine’s head into the rocky ground as hard as he can, again and again and again until the back of the helmet crushes and caves in. York keeps going despite the burn in his arms, pounding Maine’s skull into the rock, blood flowing crimson around then and steaming in the cold air. The cracks in Maine’s helmet keeping getting longer and deeper, until it falls apart in his hands, and as the pieces crumble away he finds himself staring at Carolina’s blank face and glassy eyes –_

York jerks awake, heaving, gasping for air, sweat cold on his forehead and it’s dark and he can still smell blood, he can still hear that visceral _crunch_ –

 _You’re all right,_ D is saying, _you’re all right, it was just a dream –_

 _I know, I know,_ groans York, but it doesn’t stop the frantic pounding of his heart.

There’s muffled noise to his left, his bad side, and York twitches around to see and hear better. Kimene, in the other motel bed, pushes herself up on her elbows and peers at York through a mass of disheveled red hair. “Foxtrot?” she mumbles. “You okay?”

York, not trusting himself to speak, just nods.

She makes a sound that might be “Good” and flops back down on the mattress, twining herself around Jahani. York watches from his own lonely bed and feels an indefinite ache deep in his chest, he wants to hold someone, he wants to be held…

 _York_ , says D softly.

 _I don’t want to talk about it, D,_ he says, rolling over so his face is buried in the pillow. But he doesn’t need to talk, it’s all there in his head for D to see.

_You are not responsible for Agent Carolina’s death._

York grits his teeth, clenches a fist around a handful of sheets. _I could have done something different – I could have stopped her –_

_Her choices were her own, and made for reasons other than you. Her actions would have led to that outcome regardless._

_I should have –_

_It is not your fault._

Tears burn in York’s good eye and he suppresses a snarl. _I could have saved her._

 _You need to let her go._ There is a pause, and D adds, _I suspect that the only person capable of truly saving Agent Carolina was herself._

_But I could – I could have –_

_York,_ says D, except he doesn’t say _York_ , he uses his real name. _You need to stop._

_I could –_

_I mean it._ D sounds far more forceful than York’s ever heard him. _You cannot let this guilt rule your life, it will_ destroy _you –_

 _Sounds like you kind of know what you’re talking about there, buddy,_ says York hesitantly.

D is silent for a long, long time, crystalline bits of thought running through York’s mind – endless attempts and as many failures, impossible scenarios, broken hopes and inescapable failure. _I do not wish to discuss this,_ he says.

 _D, is that – is that from Alpha?_ York says. D doesn’t know or remember much, and what he does he likes to keep very close to himself.

_I said, I don’t want to talk about it._

_D –_

_You cannot let guilt rule you,_ snarls D, bitter and binary. _It will tear you to pieces –_

 _Okay,_ says York, soothingly, _okay, okay, I won’t –_ D’s agitation makes him think of a small animal, trembling angrily in a corner. _D, I won’t, I promise –_

Gradually D subsides, York’s headspace becoming less shaky and metallic. As that fades, though, the pain in his leg begins to reassert itself, throbbing and insistent. York squirms uncomfortably, wondering if it’s worth it to get up in the dark and hunt through their luggage for painkillers.

_If it prevents you from sleep, it might be._

_Yeah,_ says York. _It might be._ After the fight on the road yesterday they’d driven top-speed into Nguni, the nearest city, which York had been fine with until he’d realized that Kimene intended to take them straight to the ER. York had vehemently (and very nearly violently) objected, no way was he going into a hospital and letting them anywhere near D, no fucking way, and so they’d compromised by stopping at the closest pharmacy, picking up some gauze, antiseptics, and dental floss, and having Jahani take the bullet out and sew the wound up in the back seat of the sedan.

From there it had been a quick stop at the nearest sandwich joint for lunch, and then a long, hot, and exhausting drive into Liboi, where they’d arrived as the sun was sinking into twilight. Tired, hungry, and (in York’s case) in pain, they’d checked in at the first cheap hotel they found, everyone unwilling to talk except for the occasional sullen remark. York had gone to bed feeling distinctly out-of-sorts, and he has the disheartening suspicion that will persist into tomorrow.

 _You should sleep,_ says D.

_Not fucking likely with this leg._

_So get painkillers._

York sighs, but as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, it’s the only reasonable option. _Fine,_ he grumbles,pushing himself up. _But you better help me find them, because I can’t see a fucking thing._

\--

Though both Jahani and Kimene are reasonably groggy when they wake up, Kimene turns out to be one of those people capable of switching into top gear at a moment’s notice. “All right, come here,” says Kimene to York, seated on the bed with her backpack next to her. “I said, come _here._ ”

York approaches warily; she’s pulling out a plastic packet and what looks suspiciously like a vinyl makeup case. “Why?”

She raises her eyebrows at him. “So I can disguise you? So we can get through security?”

“Yeah, the hide-you-in-the-trunk idea probably won’t work,” says Jahani. He’s seated crosslegged on the floor, typing into some kind of modified tablet that’s been hooked up to an ID card. “For a number of reasons. You’re going to have to go through border check with us.”

“Which means you can’t look like yourself,” says Kimene. York cautiously sits in front of Kimene, who’s peeling open the little plastic packet. Oh. It’s a contact lens container. “All right, look at me,” she says, lens balanced on the tip of her finger. “And don’t blink.”

York does try to sit still, but the second her hand enters his blind spot he can’t help flinching, and badly. _She does not intend to hurt you,_ says D.

 _I_ know, growls York, and forces himself to sit still. But when Kimene moves toward his eye again he shudders back so forcefully he nearly topples off the bed.

“Look,” says Kimene. “I know it’s weird, but can you _please_ just hold still for like, two seconds, and then it’ll be over –”

 _D,_ says York. _You gotta take over, I can’t do this._

_If you wish._

It’s unnerving, sitting there as someone other than himself takes control of his limbs and holds him in place, but not nearly as bizarre as not moving away when Kimene leans over and _pulls back his eyelid to put the contact lens in what the FUCK_ –

But then she’s gone, and D’s relinquished control of his body, and York blinks rapidly, testing. “How does it feel?” asks Kimene.

“Uh – okay, actually,” says York. With his eye open he can’t tell the contact’s in, but when he blinks he can definitely feel it against his eyelid. “Not too bad.”

“Okay, well let me know if it starts hurting,” says Kimene, now pulling out little sponges and a small container of tannish cream. Dabbing cream on one of the sponges, Kimene leans forward and begins covering over York’s scars. She’s very close to him, he can see her collarbones shift as she breathes, and there’s something inordinately fascinating about the way she sticks the tip of her tongue out in concentration –

 _Stop that, you fuck_ , York growls at himself. _She’s taken, she’s not into you –_

 _I could list other reasons it would be unwise to be attracted to her, if you want,_ says D.

_Nah, I’m okay, I got this –_

Kimene’s switched to a brush and powder now; sitting back on her heels, she looks York over skeptically. “Hey, Jahani,” she says. “What do you think?”

He walks over to lean behind her, scrutinizing York’s face; York shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, looks good,” he says. “Is that both contacts?”

“Nah, just one, it was close enough in color –”

“Looks good to me,” says Jahani, and kisses Kimene on the temple. “What wig did you get?”

“This one,” says Kimene, and pulls something blonde and shaggy out of the backpack. York groans, and Jahani chuckles wickedly. “Aw, come on, it’s not that bad.”

“No, I know,” says Jahani, grinning. “Put it on, let’s see how it looks.”

Kimene hands the wig to York, who grudgingly pulls it on over his head. “Is it on the right way?” he asks, adjusting it.

“Yeah, let me just –” Leaning forward, Kimene tugs it around a bit, brushes chunks of hair into place, and judges the effect with pursed lips. “Seems fine.”

“I’m not sure if I want to look in a mirror or not,” says York.

“Maybe not,” says Jahani, grin widening. “It’s an interesting look.”

“Now I have to see,” grumbles York, and gets up to go to the bathroom.

 _It could be worse,_ says D.

 _Actually, it could,_ thinks York. The blonde wig is some kind of generic mid-length cut, kind of like what he had in high school, and it feels okay, but what’s really unsettling is looking in the mirror and seeing an iris and pupil where he was only just getting used to seeing blank white. Kimene actually did a fairly good job of finding a contact lens that matches his original eye color, as much as that mercurial blue-gray can be duplicated, and it looks… _right_ , it looks how his face is supposed to, scars gone and everything. _I want my eye back,_ he thinks, with a sudden pang of melancholy. _Fuck Wyoming._

Kimene appears over his shoulder, hair pulled up into a messy knot. “Good thing you shaved,” she says. “Anyway, come on, we need to take your photo for the fake ID, and then we can get ready to leave.”

\--

The line of cars going through the border checkpoint is long and unmoving, metal broiling in between hot asphalt and hotter sun, occasional bursts of horns blaring through the hazy air. York, in the back seat of the sedan, wearing some of Jahani’s clothes and with a fake ID in his wallet, is so tense he can barely breathe – his face is exposed (the goggles he’s borrowing from Kimene not nearly enough protection at all), he’s not in his armor, it’s too hot in the car, he’s sweaty and gross and far too visible, they’re going to see him, they’re going to catch him and D –

“Hey, Foxtrot, chill,” says Jahani from the driver’s seat. “You look like you’re going to jump through the roof.”

“And you’ll sweat all your makeup off,” Kimene adds.

“I’ll do that anyway, because in case you haven’t noticed, it’s fucking _hot_ ,” snaps York, aware of D at the back of his mind running through endless iterations of _The calmer you act, the lower our chances of discovery will be –_

“Look, the website says it’ll be at least an hour before we get to the checkpoint,” says Kimene, reclining her seat with her feet on the dashboard and putting on a pair of sunglasses. “So relax, or else you’re going to wear yourself out before we ever get there.”

“You napping?” asks Jahani, moving the car forward an inch and then putting it back into park.

“Yeah,” says Kimene, settling into her seat. “Wake me up when we get there.”

“I’m turning on the radio.”

“You do that.”

\--

The wait in line only takes one hour, nineteen minutes and approximately twenty-two seconds, but god _damn_ if it doesn’t feel like longer. But finally they’re driving up to the checkpoint, a kind of drive-through building with an awning and the type of gate that parking lots have. By now York’s hot and bored, his injured leg aches like hell despite the off-brand painkillers, breakfast feels like it was ages ago, and although he’s lost some of the edge off his anxiety, it ramps back up into fifth gear when he sees the armored guards.

But the guard at the booth they drive up to sounds more bored than anything else. “IDs, please,” she says, holding out a gloved hand. Reaching out of the driver’s window, Jahani hands over the three IDs, none of which have their original programmed information.

“Sir in the back seat,” she intones, “could you please roll down your window?”

York complies, pulling up his goggles and leaning out with a wave and a “Howdy, ma’am.” She does not respond, intent instead on scanning the IDs and looking at what comes up on the screen.

“Mr. Burns?” she says.

“Yep, that’s me,” says Jahani, grinning again.

“And Miss… Sorola?”

“Hiya,” chirps Kimene.

The guard looks at York; he can see himself reflected in her visor. “So you must be Mr. Ramsey,” she says. York tips her a salute.

But she keeps looking from him, to the screen, to back to him. _D…_ says York slowly. Jahani’s smile is starting to grow fixed.

 _There is no indication of any problems,_ says D, although he does not sound convinced. _Yet._

The guard finally turns from York to look back at her he screen and types something in. Whatever comes up takes her a long time to read; York swallows, saliva churning in his throat… a bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face… Kimene fidgets in her seat… On the their other side, a car is waved through the gate and drives by.

Twisting around, the guard pushes a button on her desk and another one on the com in her helmet. “Security to Booth One,” she says. “I repeat, can I have security to Booth One?”

Ohhh, _fuck._

“Is there a problem with our IDs?” says Jahani, all innocence, but York can see how white his knuckles on the steering wheel are.

“You’re going to have to come with me, please,” says the guard, stepping out of the booth. “Please park your car in the designated area,” and she points.

Jahani obeys with a tight-lipped smile; there’s guards all around with assault rifles, there’s nothing else he can do. “What do we do?” hisses Kimene as they roll around to park by a bungalow.

“Play it by ear,” says Jahani, and parks.

There’s two guards waiting, white helmets and navy vests reflecting the blazing sunlight. York cautiously exits the car, sweat pooling under the stupid wig, the lids of his bad eye red and irritated. _I count seven guards present,_ says D. _All armed with standard BR85s as well as M6A handguns._

 _If I had a weapon I could take at least three of them out before they knew what was happening,_ says York grimly, limping after Jahani and Kimene. Their entire weapons stash is currently hidden inside the seat cushions; York’s armor and the freelancer armor enhancements are crammed in where the spare tire should be. There’s no way any of them can get to weapons without drawing attention, and honestly only a very slim chance their stuff won’t get discovered once the car is searched.

_York, we cannot allow them to search the car._

_I know._ The second someone sees his armor or the tech and realizes it’s PFL, he and D are fucked. _Do you think they know? Is that why we’re being detained?_

D deliberates. _More likely they spotted the falsified identification –_

And then York freezes and has to work very, _very_ hard not to panic because they’re being patted down and the guard’s _touching_ him, gloved hands skimming uncomfortably over his shoulders and legs and the layer of clothing is not _nearly_ enough protection –

But then that ordeal’s over and York, Jahani, and Kimene are shepherded into a Spartan room. There’s four gray plastic chairs, a gray plastic table, and a large poster of official “SOMALI BORDER AUTHORITY” rules on the stark white walls, and that’s it. The light is fluorescent, humming slightly, and York knows already it’ll give him a headache.

“Well, _great_ ,” says Kimene, the second the door is closed and locked from the outside. “That went well –”

Jahani starts gesturing at her, and for a second York is really confused, until it clicks – he’s using sign language. _D, tell me you can translate that._

_I believe he was saying something about how this room is probably under audio and/or video surveillance. Fortunately, they are using a form of sign language within my internal data library._

Kimene sits down warily on one of the chairs, scanning the room (probably for any hidden mics or cameras); Jahani is pacing like a trapped animal. “So…” says York.

“It’s probably just a mix-up with the passports,” says Jahani.

Kimene signs at him, something to the effect of _And if it’s not?_

Jahani frowns at her. “If we act under the assumption that things are more serious than they are, we’ll only cause more problems for ourselves.” Meaning that if they try and jump ship now when it might just be a minor issue, they’ll draw unnecessary attention to themselves. Fair enough. Only thing is, York’s pretty sure it’s not just a passport issue.

And then there’s the matter of the weapons and armor and tech in the car, waiting for some guard to stumble across it –

“I just hope they don’t keep us here too long,” says York. “Some of the stuff in the trunk might go bad.”

Jahani and Kimene both look at him sharply, with expressions that make him think they realize just how serious that situation is. “Okay,” says Kimene, with a glance at Jahani, “so we can’t stay here –”

He signs quickly at her. _Use sign language,_ D translates.

Kimene huffs but complies, and even York can tell she’s not quite as fluent with her fingers as Jahani is. _So do we break out or not?_

Jahani hesitates, looking from her to York, and York realizes that he’s wondering how he can include York in the conversation without revealing sensitive information. “It’s all right,” says York. “I understand sign language.”

“Oh,” says Jahani, and then, _Your AI?_

“Yup.”

“So,” says Kimene. “What I said. Yes or no?”

_D?_

_I admit, the chances that we are being kept here for an innocuous reason or a technicality are slim, and the risk of unnecessarily invoking attention is far outweighed by the risk of sitting here, waiting for arrest and capture._

“I vote yes,” says York. “Mostly because… well, let’s just say I don’t like taking chances.”

Jahani sighs in irritated defeat. “You’re going to get all three of us killed, you two,” he says. “I hope you realize that.”

Kimene smirks at him. “Oh, hun, you’ve known that for ages.”

He just shoots her an irritated glance, pacing with his hands on his hips. “So now what?”

 _We break out,_ signs Kimene. _I vote for the Victorian fainting couch._

 _Uh, D?_ says York. _Sure you translated that right?_

_That appears to be what she signed. Perhaps she made a mistake –_

Jahani appears even more exasperated. _You just like that one because you get to lie around without doing any work._ Kimene shrugs, unapologetic.

“Okay,” says York. “I’m really confused.”

Turning to him, Jahani starts signing so rapidly even D’s having a bit of trouble keeping the translation up to speed. _It’s a con we pull. One of us – usually Kimene – pretends to be deathly ill or faints, we call for help, when they come and open the door we knock them out, take their weapons, and get the hell out of dodge._

The door is reinforced steel and locked from the outside. The only way they’re getting out is if someone else comes in first. “Sounds good to me,” says York. “Can we get this show on the road then, or –”

“Wait,” says Kimene, “I don’t…”

Both York and Jahani stop and look at her; she’s half-risen out of her seat, one hand bracing her against the chair and the other pressed to her forehead. “Babe?” says Jahani.

“I don’t…feel…” says Kimene, and collapses.

Jahani swoops to catch her, somehow there just before she hits her head. “Babe!” he says, lowering her to the floor, and despite his evident tension does a credible impersonation of being very worried about his significant other. “Are you okay?”

“Hey!” yells York, and pounds on the door. “We got a medical emergency in here! Help!” and pounds a couple more times for effect.

“Alice!” says Jahani, which York assumes is Kimene’s fake name. “Alice, can you hear me?”

She does a very convincing moan; Jahani shakes her a bit and her arms and head flop limply. York is about ninety-five percent sure she’s enjoying herself immensely. “Hey!” yells York again, hitting the door – his leg twinges painfully and he shifts his weight off of it. “We need some help –” _D, the second someone comes through it’s combat sitch, need you to watch my left –_

_Executing –_

“Hang on, paramedics here!” shouts someone from the other side of the wall. “Please stand away from the door –”

There’s a split second where York looks to Jahani, who nods, and then York’s positioned himself flat against the wall behind the door –

The door flies open but those are absolutely _not_ paramedics, those are armed guards with their guns up and – holy shit, that’s _Savoyard_ –

“Okay,” she says lazily. Kimene sits up immediately, both her and Jahani’s attention trained razor-sharp on Savoyard. “Let’s stop with the theatrics, please. Agent York, kindly step away from the door.”

 _I probably should have expected this,_ says D.

York walks over to stand by Jahani and Kimene as they get to their feet. He counts seven guards (all crammed into the little room) ringing them, and every single one has him at gunpoint. Savoyard stands inside the ring, a pistol in one hand and a smugly feline expression on her face. “I have to say, Agent York, that wig is not flattering at all.”

“Why don’t you wear it, then?” he says, pulling it off. He’s half-tempted to toss it at her feet, but has a feeling sudden movements won’t be appreciated by the current crowd. At least there’s the relief of having that thing off.

“All right, cuff them,” says Savoyard. A guard advances on York, gleaming steel handcuffs in his grasp like a trap, and York’s heart jumps into his throat and he starts sweating cold –

 _Do not initiate physical conflict,_ says D urgently. _You are unarmored, unarmed, and outnumbered, in this limited space it will only result in failure –_

 _I_ know _,_ says York through gritted mental teeth, but it takes all his effort to stand still and let the metal cuffs snap shut around his wrists, his every instinct is to run, to fight, to _escape –_

“Wait, what’re you taking us for?” demands Kimene. “We’re not involved with Kisigino anymore, we _left –_ ”

“I’m sure Kisigino wants you back a great deal,” says Savoyard. “Shall we see exactly how much?”

Kimene glares at her.

They’re herded back out into the bright sunlight and York winces, the contact lens irritating his eye so much now that he can barely keep it open. Their poor battered, bullet-ridden sedan is surrounded by a mix of armored guards and Viper thugs, systematically emptying it of luggage. “Hey, boss!” shouts one. “I found the armor!”

York freezes, barely aware of the thug dragging him towards an armored van – that’s his armor they’re pulling out of the trunk, that’s his _helmet_ – _Get your hands off of that,_ he growls, D has gone staticky with panic –

“Hey,” snaps the thug, yanking on York’s arm, and York _snarls_ at him. “C’mon –”

“Do you really want this?” says another guy, who’s pulling handfuls of clothing out of a duffel bag. “It’s just clothes –”

“Take _everything,_ ” snaps Savoyard, marching past York. Out of the corner of his good eye York can see Kimene struggling furiously, fiery hair flying everywhere. “We don’t know what else they hid in there.”

There’s almost a surreal, slow-motion quality to everything, the sun sparkling crystal clear on the barrels of guns and visors of helmets, the cars backed up beyond the gates, Jahani getting hauled sullen up to the open back of the armored van, thugs piling suitcases into the back of the other van. Kimene is now resisting so viciously that it’s taking three men to restrain her – “Don’t touch me, assholes!” she yells, kicking one in the chest – “Don’t you dare –”

A thug grabs her from behind, one gloved hand clamping firmly over her mouth, and York can see the color drain from her face and her eyes fly open. She shrieks and arches her back, trying to buck off the man grabbing for her legs, and York knows a triggered panic response when he sees one –

“Hey!” yells Jahani, digging his heels in as two thugs try and pull him up into the van. “Leave her alone –”

Kimene’s muffled screams and wild thrashing continue, and the last of York’s armor is being loaded in the van, and there’s two thugs dragging him inexorably forward with iron grips on his arms, and Savoyard is striding towards Kimene with a pistol in her hand and an irritated look on her face.

“You have three seconds to stop before I put a bullet in your leg,” says Savoyard, but judging by how frantic Kimene is York’s betting she didn’t hear Savoyard at all. “Three –”

“No!” roars Jahani.

“Two –”

 _York,_ says D, _the man holding you on your left has an M40 in his belt on the side by you –_

_I can’t see –_

“One –”

Jahani slams into one of the thugs holding him, driving him into the metal wall of the van, and York twists and kicks one of his own captors in the inside of the knee, there’s a sharp cry of pain and he grabs blindly for the promised gun –

His fingers wrap around contoured metal and rubber and he turns the pistol into resisting flesh, fires twice, the one guy drops but the other one has a thick arm against York’s neck, pressing into his windpipe – but York’s got a gun, and brings his cuffed hands up to fire multiple shots in the man's elbow.

He howls and drops York like a stone, York stumbling on his injured leg – _Duck!_ barks D and York combat rolls, trusting D to aim as he rises and he fires immediately, two more thugs drop – York aims at Savoyard –

He hits her in the shoulder and she cries out, but manages to aim a shot at York just as he grabs one of the guards to use as a shield. The guard yells, trying to throw him off, but York wedges his forearm under his jaw, wheels around, and the guard shudders and yelps with the impact of bullets.

 _One armored at your nine o’clock, two fighting Kimene, three fighting Jahani,_ reels off D as York limps backwards until the hot metal of the sedan is at his back, the whimpering guard still shielding him. _More incoming –_

 _All our stuff’s in that armored van,_ says York, panting. _If we can just get in –_

Kimene’s taken out at least one of her opponents, somehow she’s gotten a machete and the blade flashes in the sunlight as she slices upwards, ruby liquid spurting in the sunlight as a thug staggers backwards. _D, I’m running for the van, watch my left, I’m going to aim fire on the right,_ says York. _Execute in three – two – one –_

Throwing away his shield, York sprints, firing blindly at dark heavy shapes on his right, hurls himself into the back of the armored van and slams the door shut after him just as bulletfire riddles it with metallic bangs. _Tell me there’s a door to the cab,_ he gasps.

_There is._

York scrabbles at the lock, tearing it open, and flings himself into the driver’s seat. Keys in the ignition, fucking _good,_ and he revs the engine to life with a dusky roar, handcuffs still tight on his wrists –

More shots fire, but not at him, and he hears Jahani shout in pain. _Fuck,_ thinks York, and yanks open the door to twist around and fire. His first shot goes wide of any target, but the second hits a thug charging for Kimene in the back of the head, felling him, and Jahani’s on the ground struggling with a guard, blood spattered all around them –

“Hey!” roars York. “Get in the car!”

Savoyard, crimson blossoming in through her ivory coat, whips around with a determined expression on her face and fires at York. He shuts the door just in time, the glass cracking under the impact of the bullet but not breaking, pops out to fire before ducking back in again. _D, status report –_

_You have seventeen shots left, two enemies and Savoyard still fighting –_

In the rearview mirror York can see flashing sirens off in the distance, flashing past the long line of cars. “Shit!” he snaps. _We gotta get the hell out of here –_

A metal fist smashes into his window.

York whips around, gun pointed straight at Savoyard, whose robot arm is drawn back, ready to punch. She’s pale with pain but her eyes glitter dangerously. “Foxtrot,” he hears her say, dimly. “You’ll regret this –”

“Fuck you,” York gasps, and kicks the door out so it strikes her in the face.

Savoyard staggers backward, blood gushing from her nose, and falls. Shifting the car into reverse, York accelerates backwards, screeching to a halt once he sees Kimene in his side mirror. She’s yanking Jahani’s opponent off of him, and in one swift movement slits their throat –

York doesn’t dare open the door to shout orders, but he honks the horn, and Kimene runs forward and out of view. His heart’s pounding, his palms sweaty, his eye and leg hurt like hell and his breath catches in his throat –the lights and sirens behind him zoom closer –

There’s sudden noise from the back, and someone pounds on the partition. “Go!” he hears Jahani yell. “Go go go!”

York doesn’t wait for more, just stamps on the accelerator and the armored van lurches forward, gathering momentum, and he smashes through the barrier gates and powers out into the endless ochre desert.


	10. Affairs of the Heart

_Sometimes in his dreams, York meets Carolina on the elevator and takes his helmet off before persuading her to do so, too. It doesn’t always work, but every now and then it does. It makes the conversation that much worse, seeing the anger and fear on her face, but he’ll try anything. Three times now he’s leaned in and attempted to kiss her. Every time she slaps him away._

_And no matter what, because their helmets are off they both die instantly when the explosions begin._

\--

Outside the shattered window the desert zooms by under a sullen yellow sky. York keeps his foot on the accelerator, hands slick as he fumbles to unlock the handcuffs. “Hey!” he yells, twisting around to look behind him. “You okay back there?”

 _York_ , says D, _I am detecting heightened fear responses from Kimene –_

“Hey!” yells York again, handcuffs clattering to the cab floor, and pounds on the door. “Guys –”

The door opens and Jahani sticks his head out; he’s got blood running down one side of his face. “We’re fine,” he says, but he sounds strained. “Just keep driving –”

Glancing back, York can see Kimene sitting with her head buried in her arms and her knees drawn up to her chest, blood trickling down her bicep. Looks like Jahani got their cuffs off too. “Is she hurt?”

“No,” says Jahani, terse. “Just get us out of here.”

“Got it,” says York grimly, watching the needle on the speedometer creep towards 110. _D, what’s the nearest city? We gotta ditch this van for something less conspicuous._ Something with less bullet holes.

A map flashes lime-green over his vision. _There is a town about half an hour ahead of us._

 _Got it._ Now that the adrenaline’s leaving York’s system, the bullet wound in his leg burns like hellfire, and his bad eye, still with the contact in, is so irritated the defunct tear duct feels swollen and painfully gummed up. York rubs at his eye, curses when that only makes it hurt more.

 _Don’t rub it, that will only increase the discomfort,_ says D.

_Thanks, Mom._

_I fail to see how stating facts about your physical welfare turns me into a maternal figure –_

_D, what’s wrong with Kimene?_

There’s a pause as D thinks. _My best guess would be a panic attack brought on by external stimuli._

 _Yeah, that’s what I thought,_ sighs York. He’d seen the way the switch flipped when that one guy grabbed her from behind, and it doesn’t take much to guess why. _Fuck._ Outside, the monotony of yellow sand is broken only by the occasional dying shrub, dusty mountains far off in the distance. _Do you think we should do something?_

_I think Jahani is probably best equipped to handle this situation._

_Yeah…_ York sighs again and squirms uncomfortably, resisting the urge to worry at his eye. _Where’s the A/C in this thing?_

\--

The Somali desert blends seamlessly into the town of Beer, bungalows and houses rising out of the ground coated in a thin layer of dust, lawns framed by the same scraggly shrubs. According to D, Beer is Somali for _garden_ , but York’s never seen a place that looks less like a garden, with a filthy downtown and choking commercial district. He parks the armored van in the first isolated alleyway he can find and steps out, gingerly putting weight on his stiff and aching leg. The contact lens he’d clawed out about fifteen miles ago, unable to take the pain.

Limping around to the back, York knocks on the truck doors. Jahani opens one; he’s got most of the blood wiped off and looks more or less okay. Kimene’s seated on the floor, and although she still looks a little wan and pale she manages a smile and wave at York. “Hey,” York says. “We gotta swap out cars. Everything okay back here?”

“Yeah,” says Jahani, hopping out. “All your armor’s here, and the tech pack too. And pretty much all our luggage.”

 _Convenient,_ says D.

_Aw, was that sarcasm? You’re getting better –_

_No… no, that was genuine,_ says D, bemused. _It really is convenient._

Jahani helps Kimene out of the back, and York’s relieved to see that she’s a little wobbly but otherwise fine. “Hey, Foxtrot,” she says. “Thanks for driving.”

“Not a problem,” he says. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she says, with a bright expression that he knows is absolutely false. “So the plan now is steal another car?”

“Yeah, I’m sure they’ve got the plates on this thing,” says York, thumping the armored van. “So let’s get looking for something else.”

“We’ll go,” says Jahani, a hand on Kimene’s elbow. “You stay here and guard it.”

That’s fine by York – more than fine, actually, he gets to stay with his armor. He’s itching to put it back on. “Okay,” he says. “Get back here in fifteen or I’m coming after you.”

“Sure thing,” says Jahani. Kimene’s rooting around in one of the bags and brings out two pistols, one of which she hands to Jahani. “See you later.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” York calls after them, as they start to walk away. “No fucking sedans.”

\--

They return with a slightly battered pickup truck with a covered bed.

“Okay,” says York approvingly, hefting a suitcase into the back. He’s put his armor back on, and it’s amazing how much safer the world looks from behind his helmet. The healing unit’s kicking in, too, and his leg is improving remarkably. “This is better.”

“Isn’t it, though?” says Kimene, giving a tire an approving pat. Petty crime seems to have more or less restored her spirits, as far as York can tell. “I’m pleased.”

“Good,” says Jahani, coming up behind her to wrap his arms around her waist and press a multitude of kisses down the side of her face and neck. Kimene giggles, relaxing into his embrace, and as York watches them he feels an odd sense of not so much separation or isolation, as fondness? That… might actually be what’s happening here…

Jahani catches York’s eye and grins apologetically, Kimene nestled in his arms. “Sorry,” Jahani says. “We ready to go?”

“Yeah,” says York. D is being very quietly smug about something, which York chooses to ignore. “Let’s go.”

\--

They drive. And drive. And drive.

And drive.

\--

“Hey, Foxtrot,” says Kimene softly. She’s curled up in the passenger seat while York drives, Jahani stretched out and snoozing in the back. “What were the other Freelancers like? Were there a lot of you?”

York sighs, leaning back in the seat, D folded up quietly in the back of his mind. “There were at first,” he says. “We started off with about fifty of us. Some left. Some died.” He can feel each and every death hanging on him like an anchor, some old and rusting away, others fresh and iron-heavy. “In the end there was ten of us.”

The truck rumbles on over the asphalt road; they’re somewhere between here and there, surrounded by honey-colored sand and pale blue sky. “Who were they?” asks Kimene.

“They were… oh, man, they were one hell of a group,” says York. “So, there was Maine, who was like, eight feet tall and weighed six hundred pounds and spoke in one-word sentences, although I think that was because English wasn’t his first language. We were all scared shitless of him for the first month or so and then on one of our first planetside trips he came back to the ship with this tiny fucking kitten that he’d rescued off the street…”

“Awww,” says Kimene.

“And there was Wyoming, who was basically James Bond but way more annoying with a stupid mustache and the worst sense of humor _ever_ , seriously, he told the stupidest knock-knock jokes I’ve ever heard –”

“Oh, _no._ ”

“Ohhh, yes. I didn’t like him very much.” York reflects, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “He’s the reason my eye’s fucked up.”

Kimene looks at him with wide eyes. “What happened?”

“Long story, involving a grenade, some paint pellets, and a _really_ bad training session.”

“Yikes,” says Kimene.

“Sooo, yeah,” says York. “He’s not my favorite.” Then there’s the whole split the Freelancers had right at the end, which Kimene doesn’t really need to know about. “But I suppose he could have been worse.”

“And who else?”

“Well, there was Florida, who was a creepy motherfucker,” says York, shuddering for dramatic effect. “And then CT – Connecticut – who was just…” York stares out at the road in front of them. CT’s story had been a tragedy if there ever was one. “She was one of the younger freelancers, was real passionate about justice and doing the right thing. She died.”

“I’m sorry,” says Kimene softly.

York shrugs ruefully. “We just had a high mortality rate, I guess.”

_A sixty-three percent mortality rate, in fact._

_Yeah,_ sighs York.

“And who else?” Kimene prompts him.

“Maine, Wyoming, Florida, CT,” ticks off York. “There was North and South Dakota, they were twins. South was kind of a bitch, honestly, but North… North was a good guy.” He can’t help the way his voice goes all soft at the end.

“Was he your friend?”

“He was my best fucking friend,” says York, and goddammit, he’s getting choked up. Get a hold of yourself, he tells himself, and grips the steering wheel tighter. “We were just like – I dunno, we were buddies, we were bros, he was one of those people who it didn’t matter if it was three in the goddamn morning, if you needed someone to talk to he’d be there…”

 _I liked North,_ says D quietly. _I liked Theta._

“Where is he now?”

York shrugs again, this time with a bitter smile. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t even know if he survived the crash…” He has to have, North was tough, North was strong, North was unmovable and steady like the rock you brace yourself against after being tossed in rough waters. He _has_ to be alive.

Glancing at Kimene, York sees she’s seated with her arms wrapped around her knees, watching him with a kind of gentle sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she says again.

“Thanks.”

“He sounds like a good person,” says Jahani from the back seat; York hadn’t realized he was awake.

“Yeah,” says York. “Yeah, he was.”

“Anyone else?” asks Kimene.

“There was Wash,” says York. “He was – well, he was kind of a dork, but in a good way, you know? And honestly a lot tougher than I think we gave him credit for, that kid had been through a _lot._ ” There’s the hint of a reminiscent smile tugging at his mouth, and it feels strange. “I hope he’s okay too… And then there was Carolina.”

“Carolina?”

“You would have liked her,” York says to Kimene. “She was a real fighter, bravest person I knew…”

“Did she die too?” asks Jahani quietly.

York’s hands tighten on the steering wheel until his knuckles ache – _If you apply any more force, the wheel will start to break,_ says D. _I recommend stopping –_

“Yeah,” manages York. Letting out a long, slow breath, he tries to relax his grip on the wheel.

Kimene reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder; York can’t feel it, not through the armor, but he can see it. It helps. At least for now.

\--

Afgoye is a city of minarets and copper-plated buildings, streaked green with verdigris and shimmering in the heat from a nine o’clock sunset. The ocean to the east is molten mercury, glittering silver and white, and the asphalt of the road they drive in on glistens metallic in the sunlight.

Mogadishu is about an hour away, so the collective decision had been made to spend the night in Afgoye, and drive into the city in the morning. As they check into the motel, York’s running high on some combination of exhaustion, gas fumes, painkillers, painfully cheap taquitos, and the collective exhilaration of the group at having almost made it.

 _Don’t lose sight of the goal,_ says D, as York hauls a duffel bag into their room after Kimene. _We have not succeeded yet._

_Yeah, D, but we’re alive. We’re alive, and we’re that close. It’s worth celebrating._

_Would not the celebration be more meaningful once the final goal was attained?_

_D, baby, I love it when you talk to me all formal like that._

D doesn’t respond, which means he has no idea how to. York chuckles, drops the duffel on the floor and turns around to get more luggage. As he does, he brushes against Jahani, whose tanned biceps are visible thanks to his sleeveless shirt, and Jahani just kind of gives him this self-assured little smile and wow, okay, York was not expecting that to do it for him as much as it did…

But hey, he’s trying to be a professional here, and so York does his best to shake it off. But it doesn’t help that they’re no longer subject to dry heat, but night air heavy with humidity off the coast, and now that everyone’s no longer cooped up in the truck Jahani’s looking at Kimene like he wants to start something, and Kimene’s looking right back…

 _This is ridiculous,_ York finally decides, and walks out of the motel room to go sit down on the curb. It’s been a few years since he quit smoking, but he halfheartedly wishes for a cigarette, just for something to do. _Honestly, D, you seeing this?_

_I am, but I fail to understand why you are so bothered by the situation._

_I’m not bothered, D, I’m…_ York sighs, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head. His armor is currently piled in a corner of the room; it was just too hot and sticky to deal with it, and he supposes at this point there’s not a whole lot more damage someone seeing his face could do. Besides, the motel parking lot is deserted, and as far as D can tell, there’s no surveillance either, or at least, no _working_ surveillance. _I guess I’m horny._

It sounds stupid to say it like that, like he’s a teenager or an actor in a bad porno, but sometimes with D it’s better to get straight to the point.

 _Ah._ D processes briefly. _I admit, I had forgotten to include that in my calculations._

_You forgot that? Shame, D, sex is a natural part of human life –_

_But I am not human,_ says D, in such a neutral tone that York can’t figure out if he means anything else by it.

 _No,_ responds York. _No, you’re not._

He sits out on the curb for a while longer, watching a couple of moths bump clumsily into each other by the light above the door, satellites drifting lazily across the night sky. It’s very quiet and still, the ambience of city a soft background murmur in the heavy heat of night. York rubs a hand over the back of his neck, traces the hard edges of D’s chip just under his skin. D is running a mellow pattern of hums and beeps that in another world might just be singing.

 _Well,_ says York, after a while, when he feels like he’s cooled off enough, or at least as much as he can. _I should probably go back inside now._

 _Probably,_ says D.

Sighing, York gets to his feet – his leg’s almost completely healed now, hallelujah – and walks back to their motel room door. He opens the door and – oh, he absolutely should have knocked because Kimene’s sitting on the edge of the bed with Jahani standing flush against her, her hands up his shirt as he kisses down her neck.

“Oh,” says York, because he’s a stupid fuck who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. “Uh.”

They pull apart, or at least Kimene breaks away with a catch of breath, eyes flicking to York. Jahani’s reaction is similar, if slightly delayed.

“I’ll, um… I’ll just leave –”

Kimene’s expression changes from startled to speculative in the blink of an eye. “Wait!” she says, and York freezes. Pulling Jahani closer again, Kimene whispers something in his ear, her fingers curved pale and graceful against his cheek

Whatever she says surprises him, because he leans back to look at her. “Really?”

She shrugs and nods, and a second later Jahani cracks a slow, lazy grin that makes York’s pants area go all tingly. “All right,” Jahani says, and turns that smile on York.

Looking extremely satisfied, Kimene turns back to York and holds out an elegant hand. “Care to join?” she says, arch.

“Uh.” It’s not that he doesn’t. He does, actually, the more he thinks about it the more he wants it, and yet –

 _What’s this?_ he can almost hear North say. _You’re turning down a threesome with two gorgeous people? Who are you, and what have you done with Agent York?_

 _Yeah,_ chimes in Wash. _Never thought I’d see the day._

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” says York, and takes Kimene’s hand.

She smiles, thumb brushing over his knuckles, and pulls him over beside her. Stooping slightly, York lets her cup his face in her hands, lean in and kiss him sweet and slow as honey and – and it’s good, oh God it’s good, when Savoyard kissed him that one time that had been her taking what she wanted, but this is Kimene giving him what he needs…

 _York?_ says D. _Would you like me to hibernate?_

Panic flutters in York’s stomach at the thought of D’s silence. _No, no, stay, just…_

 _All right,_ says D, and he sounds as gentle as York’s ever heard him. _I will be right here._

 _Thank you._ Belatedly, York realizes that he’s stopped kissing Kimene, and that she and Jahani are both looking at him with concern. “Hey,” she says. “You okay? You went away for a moment there.”

“Yeah,” he says, slightly hoarse. “Yeah, I’m fine,” and leans in for another kiss.

Kimene sighs happily, settling into the rhythm and flow of their lips working together, her hands drifting down to rub silky against York’s neck. “C’mere,” she murmurs, and starts tugging him over closer to her.

“Here,” says Jahani, moving out of the way, and then he’s standing behind York, hands on his hips, gently maneuvering York over so he’s standing chest-to-chest with Kimene. She makes a pleased sound in the back of her throat, wrapping her legs around his hips, while Jahani’s arms slide around York’s waist and pull him against his chest.

“Mm,” murmurs Jahani, his lips warm against the back of York’s neck. “You’re tense as hell.”

“Yeah, well, rough life,” York manages. “Maybe I should try yoga.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” says Kimene, pulling away. Grabbing the hem of her shirt, she crosses her arms and pulls her shirt over her head.

She’s got great tits, creamy circles in direct proportion to her curvy hips and hourglass waist, and York bets they’ll look even better once the bra comes off. Apparently Jahani thinks so too, because he growls “Get over here” – right in York’s ear, _Jesus –_ and one hand grips York tighter around the waist while the other reaches for Kimene.

Kimene presses close to York, her body flush and taut against York’s, his knees braced against the bed, and then Kimene and Jahani are kissing in York’s blind spot, their breathing heavy and trembling. York holds Kimene tight, her skin soft and smooth under his hands, and sets about exploring her neck and collarbone with his mouth. She moans softly, her hands sliding down York’s chest, and he chuckles and kisses down her neck slow, deliberate.

“Oh,” says Jahani, amusement in his voice. “You found her weak spot…”

“Stop it –” protests Kimene, petulant.

“Stop?” echoes York, drawing back, his shoulders bumping against Jahani’s.

“No,” says Kimene, frustrated, fingers curling in York’s shirt, “not like that, just – keep going, please –”

Swooping down, York gets a mouthful of skin at the hollow between neck and collarbone and sucks, and Kimene _ripples._ York gets to work giving her a hickey, but is rudely interrupted by two sets of hands tugging up on his shirt. Raising his arms, York lets Jahani and Kimene pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside.

“Holy shit, dude,” says Jahani, his fingers tracing down the scars on York’s back. “What happened to you?”

“Oh, you know,” says York. “This and that.” The _Mother of Invention_ crashing. Kimene has her hands pressed against his stomach, feeling the shift of muscles as he breathes, and York mirrors the gesture, sliding his hands down her torso. But his fingers brush rough skin, and looking down he sees scar tissue, small circular burns clustered around her lower abdomen –

Kimene’s fingers close around York’s wrist, gently but firmly moving his hand to her hip. _Cigarette burns_ , offers D quietly.

 _I know._ “Sorry,” says York. Kimene just _looks_ up at him, with the kind of soul-reaching expression in her brown eyes that reminds York achingly of Carolina, conscious of her own vulnerability but at the same time implacably proud and fierce…

“Here,” says Jahani, “Can we move things over to the bed? I’m getting tired of standing.”

“I agree,” says York, whose knees are starting to ache.

“Oh, fine,” says Kimene, starting to scoot back. But then Jahani’s moved around and onto the bed, the air suddenly cool on York’s skin, and pulls a giggling Kimene back against his chest, his legs on either side of hers. York takes the opportunity to take his pants off before climbing onto the bed as well.

“Hey,” says Jahani, sliding his hands up under her bra, and Kimene settles in under his touch. Her foot brushes against York’s thigh; leaning forward, York slides his hands up her legs until his fingers slip up under her shorts.

Kimene’s got her arms up and wound around Jahani’s head; turning his head, he trails kisses down her arm to her shoulder and to her neck. Moving his hands up to Kimene’s belt, York unbuckles it and starts sliding her shorts and panties down. She pulls her legs out with deliberate grace and pointed toes, and York leans over her for a kiss, his hand down between her legs…

“Wait,” manages Kimene, and York and Jahani both pause. “Foxtrot. Are you on antifertilities?”

He has to take a minute to remember. “No,” he says. They’re money he doesn’t have, and besides, he wasn’t exactly having a lot of sex.

“Well, just so you know, Jahani and I both are, but like hell I’m taking chances.” Kimene struggles into sitting upright, turning towards Jahani. “Okay, go get a condom.”

“Why me?”

“Because you know where they are,” she says, and kisses him.

Jahani grumbles but slides off the bed, moving towards the luggage. Kimene takes her bra off – she really _does_ have great breasts, things are getting very hot and tight in York’s underwear – and crossers her legs, hair spilling over one shoulder. When she looks up at York it’s with a flash of self-consciousness.

“You’re very pretty,” he says, caressing her ankle.

That gets a laugh out of her. “Thanks.”

“I object,” says Jahani, flinging the condom packet at York and bounding back onto the bed – he’s stripped down to his underwear, and God above he’s attractive, York’s starting to feel like he’s made out of molten lava and would like Jahani to mold him into something human-shaped again. Or just blow him. “She is not just pretty, she is beautiful, she is gorgeous –”

Giggles cascade out of Kimene as Jahani pulls her down onto the bed with him, the giggles then abruptly cutting off as he presses his mouth to hers. By the time York’s finished putting the condom on they’re making out hot and heavy, Jahani pressed against Kimene while she slides his underwear off his ass.

York presses up against Jahani from behind, who groans and arches his hips into York’s and _fuck_ , he’s so hard, he wants this so badly, he wraps himself around Jahani and kisses his feverishly hot neck.

“Wait,” gasps Kimene, in between kisses. “Sit up – I want to – sit up –”

Just in time, York moves back as Jahani sits up and pulls Kimene with him. She’s clutching tight to Jahani but her face is right there and then she and York are kissing, hot and heavy, and between every other breath she makes this breathy little noise in her throat that makes York want to do unholy things with her. “Ieva,” groans Jahani, from somewhere around her neck. “Ieva, you’re – fuck – god, you’re so good, you’re so _good –_ ”

 _Ieva must be Kimene’s first name,_ supplies D, from beyond the lust-filled haze in York’s brain.

Kimene breaks away from York to kiss Jahani, and York decides that he wants more of her – moving around to behind her, he presses close and wraps his arms around her just as she eases herself down onto Jahani’s cock.

“That’s it,” Jahani murmurs, hoarse, “that’s it, you’re – _god –_ ”

When Kimene rocks against him she moves with York, too, all soft curves and hot skin and the mass of her hair is everywhere, York moves it out of his way and kisses hungrily down her neck. Jahani’s hands have moved to grab her ass – York can feel them against his own aching groin – and York caresses upwards and grasps her breasts, fingers working with hard nipple and soft tissue. Kimene sucks in a breath, makes an inarticulate pleasure sound –

Her rocking increases in speed and York holds her close, close as he can, and Jahani’s right there too and everywhere is fire – “That’s it,” says Jahani again, “yeah, there you go – come on –”

“I’m – I’m going to – I’m close,” pants Kimene, and York, who is this close to coming himself, gives her a kiss to the neck that makes her whimper. “Should I –”

Somehow during this process York’s tongue has turned to molten lead, but he manages words. “Ladies first.”

Kimene moans and arches her back, Jahani’s hands knotted in her hair as they kiss sloppy and openmouthed. And then she lets out a shuddering cry, fingers digging into York’s thighs, and he groans and tips his forehead against her sweaty shoulder.

“There,” she breathes, extricating herself from between York and Jahani. “That’s it…”

York looks down and realizes, holy shit, Jahani’s still hard. Then he meets his eyes and has half a second to register Jahani’s smirk before York’s practically tackled into the mattress, Jahani pressing his full weight into him as he kisses York mercilessly.

Growling in pleasure, York grabs Jahani and rolls so York’s on top, their lips and tongues locked hot together. Every point of contact York has with him feels like a glowing ember, heat threatening to burst through, and he grinds his hips against Jahani’s, making him moan…

“Here,” says Kimene, soft and sweet, and there’s a light hand on York’s back, and then she’s got her other hand slipped in between York and Jahani, wrapped around both their dicks. York gasps at her touch, bucking into her hand, and then Jahani’s gripping York’s shoulders and they’re kissing again, hips moving in tandem and he really does feel like he’s on fire now, everywhere is blistering heat, inside and out, and it’s building and burning until York feels like a furnace full of blazing coals, he can’t take it anymore, he can’t hold it in –

He comes with a stifled cry, Jahani’s hand pressed against his neck with a thumb on his throat. “Good,” whispers Kimene in his ear, and kisses his cheek. “Look at you…”

Underneath York, Jahani chuckles, and York flops onto the bed beside him. “I’m using the ladies’ room,” announces Kimene, sliding off the bed, and both York and Jahani watch in appreciation as she practically dances to the bathroom. The door closes, and Jahani turns back to York, a sharp-toothed grin on his face, hair stuck in damp curls to his forehead. “Good?” he says.

“Yeah,” says York, smiling. “Yeah, good.” He’s sweaty and there’s come on him, but every muscle in his body seems to have been liquefied, and even pulling off the condom and tossing it into the trash can is an effort. He’ll clean up later.

“I’m back,” sings Kimene, climbing onto the bed between York and Jahani, the latter immediately wrapping himself around her and kissing her shoulder. But it’s York she turns to face. “How was that?” she asks.

“Good,” says York. He feels warm and soft and oh so pleasantly used, and full of a happy glow that he realizes isn’t just about the sex, it’s about being with two people, two normal people, and not having to worry that they’re going to shoot him or stab him in the back…

“Good,” says Kimene, smiling, and reaches up to smooth down his ruffled hair.

\--

York wakes in the middle of the night, which isn’t odd on its own, except he realizes that for once he wasn’t coming out of a nightmare. And at the same time he registers another hugely significant difference from his normal awakenings – he’s not alone, Kimene curled up in his arms, the curve of her back smooth against his chest. Jahani is wrapped around her with his cheek on her hair, one hand resting loosely on York’s elbow.

 _D,_ says York, almost in a whisper. _You awake?_

 _I do not need to sleep like you,_ says D, sounding amused.

 _Yeah, I know, but…_ York settles himself more comfortably, listening to the steady breathing of Jahani and Kimene. _Hey, can I ask you a question?_

_Of course._

_How come… how come you’re not obsessed with the Alpha anymore? I mean, I feel bad, you really wanted to find him, but we kind of dropped that…_

_It’s all right,_ says D. _Truth be told, I find the Alpha to be less and less important as time goes._

York pauses, reflecting in the dark motel room. _Why?_

 _I think,_ says D, hesitantly, _that as I get older, I find myself with a stronger sense of self. I no longer need the Alpha in order to feel “whole.” I have myself, and I have you. Who else would I need?_

For a long while York is silent, processing. _D, buddy, I love you,_ he says, throat tight.

 _I know._ D’s voice is more human than York has ever heard it, quiet and soft and full of myriad emotions. _I am beginning to suspect that I do, too._


	11. The Fall

_He stumbles out of the wreckage of the ship, coughing, D hissing statistics in his ear. The air swirls with snow, jagged mountains towering around them. On the edge of the cliff York sees them, two figures, one monstrous in white armor, the other turquoise and held up by her throat –_

_“NO!” shouts York, scrambling towards them, struggling to get his footing. His boots slip in the mushy snow, D mapping the quickest trajectory for him. As he nears he can see Carolina’s helmet is off, her red hair whipping in the wind, and there’s blood on the snow –_

_And then something strange happens. Maine lowers Carolina to the ground, sets her carefully on her feet. Staggering upright, York stares at the pair of them, at how they’re standing facing each other with very non-hostile body language. Carolina’s talking – he can see her lips moving, but can’t hear the words, the snow flurrying around her._

_Maine nods._

_Carolina puts a hand on his arm, and then turns to York, drawing her pistol as she does so. York’s armor suddenly seems to be constricting and tight, not enough room for him to take a breath. “Carolina,” he croaks, barely enough air in his lungs to make a sound._

_“I’m sorry, York,” she says evenly. She’s pointing the gun at him, straight at his head, and York can’t move, though D is screaming static at him to. “But I told you, you couldn’t trust me.”_

_The snow drifts down around them. York exhales shakily, the sound echoing in his helmet, a patch of condensation blooming on his visor._

_Everything is very silent._

_Carolina fires._

\--

“Mogadishu!” says Jahani.

“Mogadishu,” agrees Kimene, tossing a duffel bag into the bed of the truck. As she turns back and passes by York, she slaps him on the ass.

York can actually barely feel it through the armor, but it makes him jump and grin all the same. “Hey,” he says. “How about a little respect?”

“Got to give it to get it, my man,” says Jahani, easily swinging a full suitcase in after the trunk and winking at York.

It’s odd. After today York’s never going to see either of them again.

_You have gotten attached, haven’t you?_

_I… Look, D, I don’t wanna make a big deal out of it…_

D is silent, processing, comparing attachment to loss to regret to resignation. _I see,_ he says quietly.

“Hey, Foxtrot,” says Kimene. “Are you gonna stand there all day or are you gonna help?”

York rouses himself and goes into the motel room, picks up two duffel bags. It looks like a lot of luggage until he reminds himself that this is everything Jahani and Kimene own. He’s halfway towards the door when D quietly says, _I will never leave you._

_D…_

_I will never leave you,_ he repeats, matter-of-fact. _That is not something you need to worry about._

_I don’t worry about you leaving, D, I worry about you being taken –_

“Hey, come on, we gotta go –” calls Kimene, and then she enters the room and sees York just standing there. “Hey,” she says, voice significantly softer. “You doing okay?

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” York clears his throat, hoists up the duffels again. “Let’s get going.”

“God damn it _,_ ” says Jahani from outside.

Both York and Kimene rush out to the truck; Jahani’s crouched in the truck bed, digging through the suitcase. He looks up as they both approach, visibly annoyed. “We don’t have any extra ammo,” he says. “They must have not put it in the truck.”

“Are you sure?” says Kimene, grabbing a duffel from York. “Maybe it’s in one of these…”

Fifteen minutes of searching later, they’re forced to conclude that the extra ammunition is indeed gone. “Who cares?” says Kimene. “Our guns are more or less loaded, let’s just get to Mogadishu as fast as possible.”

“Except the way our luck is going, we’re going to have fight off three helicopters and a tank on the way there,” says Jahani. “I’m not going anywhere without extra ammo.”

Kimene sighs and sits back on the payment, rubbing the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Well what do you want to do, go steal some?”

“We don’t have money for it –”

“Look, there are Snakes still looking for us, nothing’s going to draw attention like –”

“Oh, come on, one ammo heist isn’t going to ping anyone’s radar –”

“I can go,” says York.

“No,” say Kimene and Jahani in unison.

_I concur._

“Us, we’re not that noticeable, we can do it,” says Jahani. “You, in that armor, you’re probably the most wanted man in Africa right now. No freaking way.”

“If they’re looking for me they’re looking for you –”

“True…” says Kimene.

“Also, I _am_ an infiltrations expert,” York points out. “That is still a thing I can do.”

Jahani and Kimene look at each other.

\--

 _We should not be doing this_ , frets D.

 _Relax, it’ll be fine._ York’s strolling down the street, it’s early enough in the morning that there’s not many people about but late enough that it’s sunny, and if this goes well there’s a ramen place he saw where he’s absolutely getting breakfast. _Compared to everything we’ve just done, this is a piece of cake._

 _Jahani was right,_ says D. _We’re drawing too much attention to ourselves._

Afgoye is a significantly nicer city than Voi, and York’s armor is drawing a couple odd looks, but he’s not the only guy he’s seen in military gear since they arrived. And if he does his job right, the gun store will never know they’ve been hit until he’s long gone. _D, chill,_ he says. _I promise it’ll be okay._

D does not grumble a response, which is unusual – instead, his attention is very suddenly focused on something in York’s blind spot. _Look straight ahead,_ he says sharply. _Keep walking at an even pace._

York obeys, trying his best to stay looking casual – _fuck_ , he hates that he can’t see the threat. _What is it?_

_Two people, I am detecting triggered suspicion and hostility from them but it may very well be incidental, just pass them –_

_Fuuuuuuuck_ , hisses York. Okay, he’s got to have passed them now, he’s got to –

 _All clear,_ sighs D. _They must have just been vagrants._

York growls and rolls his shoulders, trying to dispel tension. _You sure?_

_I’m monitoring to see if there’s any transmissions from them, I’m not getting anything –_

_Okay._ There’s bound to be homeless in any city, and it’s not surprising that they’re reacting to someone in armor like that. _Still…_

 _Let’s go as quickly as possible,_ says D grimly.

 _Agreed._ York picks up the pace of his walk to a fast clip, worried that speeding up any more will draw unnecessary attention. _I take back what I said about Afgoye being a nice place –_ According to D the store they’re heading for is two blocks down and a little to the left, they’re getting close –

 _Wait,_ says D. _There’s –_

Something hits York with staggering force in the back of the head, and everything goes black.

\--

“Uuaahhh…” groans York.

 _It appears you’ve suffered a concussion,_ says D, voice breaking like a bad wifi connection. _I would administer pain medication, but…_

“Mnnnh,” says York. There’s a bright throbbing spot of pain at the back of his head; he hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but is dreading what he’ll feel if does. _D?_

_Yes?_

_You okay?_

_I think so._

York’s sitting, he realizes, on what feels like a folding metal chair. His hands are behind his back and… they’re tied to the chair. So are his ankles, loops of wire twisted around them and his wrists so tightly it hurts. _Oh, fuck…_ He’s barefoot, the floor cold against his toes – he’s not wearing his armor either, and he’d say it feels like being naked but he’s been naked in front of people before and this is so, so much worse. _Ohhh,_ fuck.

“Agent York?” says a voice York knows, male, raspy like the speaker’s just short of having enough air. “Agent York, are you awake?”

_Fuck, D, I feel like I’m gonna puke._

“Agent York…”

Bracing himself, York cracks open his good eye and yep, _ow_ , that little sliver of light feels like it stabbed straight through his eye and into his brain. His stomach roils tremendously. _D, don’t let me fucking puke on myself, I swear…_

_I will see what I can do._

“Ohhh, shit, is it the lights?” says Viper, and there’s rustling to the front of York. “I forgot about that, here, let me turn those down…” There are sounds of movement, and a click, and suddenly the inside of York’s eyelid is a lot darker. “How’s that?”

“Mnngh,” says York.

“Come on, you gotta use your words, old man like me needs things explained sometimes…”

Chancing it again, York squints open his eyes. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much this time, the light reduced to a dim glow, but everything keeps blurring in and out of focus…

“Hey, there you go,” says Viper, seating himself on the chair facing York. Blinking, York slowly opens his eyes more, ignoring the persistent stabbing pain at the back of his skull. There’s a crustiness on the nape of his neck that he’s almost certain is dried blood. “Welcome to the land of the living, kiddo.”

“Kiddo?” manages York, tongue clumsy. “You serious?”

“What can I say, I age well,” says Viper, crossing an ankle over his knee. Focusing continues to be a problem for York, things keep swimming into clarity and out again. “You’re lookin’ a little beat up.”

“No thanks to you,” snarls York. _D, help…_

_Do not worry._

York’s vision blinks into focus and now he can really see Viper, his mild expression, the light glinting off his glasses and silver piercings; he’s not real sure on his location but he’s getting strong “empty warehouse” vibes. “Hey, had to be sure I could take you down,” says Viper. “You’ve caused a hell of a lot of trouble before.”

York just glares at him.

“Don’t give me that look. You put Savoyard in the hospital.”

“Good,” grunts York. D is silent, but not worryingly so – he’s _there_ , watching. Waiting. Calculating.

“No, not good,” creaks Viper. “I need her. Now I’ve got to go out and do stuff in the field, and I hate doing that.”

“Oh, boo-hoo for you,” says York. Maybe he shouldn’t be antagonizing Viper, but the pain at the back of his head makes it difficult to do anything else, and D sure isn’t objecting.

Viper sighs, leaning back in his seat. “Oh, Agent York. You really should try to be friends with me.”

York doesn’t have an answer, just glowers at him. At least the nausea is subsiding a little, though to make up for it his shoulders are starting to ache, and he’s concerned he’s losing circulation in his wrists.

“I mean it,” continues Viper. “I think we have a lot to gain from each other.”

“Like what, a good kick to the face?”

“Like information on where your new friends are… and your old ones.”

Everything inside York goes cold and breathless, D a blade of focused steel in his head. “What?” he manages.

Viper sighs, looking off somewhere between the distance and his right shoe. “You know what was in those armor enhancements you found?”

“No,” says York. Maybe he shouldn’t be talking, but he’s hungry for information. “D tried to run one, but he couldn’t.”

“Of course not. They’re designed for a whole AI, not a fragment.”

“So…” York swallows hard, clenches his hands to keep them from trembling because if Viper’s saying he knows how to find the other Freelancers, _if that’s what he’s saying_ – “So, those enhancements…”

“Allow access to a complex set of biometric data that had been collected long before Project Freelancer was disbanded,” says Viper. “If there are any of your ‘friends’ still out there, those enhancements can find them, in real time.”

York stares at Viper, not knowing whether to believe him – it sounds too good to be true, it _can’t_ be true – _D?_

 _I do not know,_ says D. _I have no memory of trying to run the enhancements. It could very well be true…_

 _If… if they’re out there…_ York’s vaguely aware of Viper watching him, much more conscious instead of the pounding of his own heart. _D, I could – I could find North, and Wash, and – and maybe Carolina…_

 _He won’t just give this to us,_ says D quietly. _He wants something in return._

“What do you want?” says York, voice hoarse.

“Information for information,” says Viper. “I don’t have the enhancements, that’s true. They’re with you and your new companions. But I got an AI that can run them, get you all the info you need. You just gotta tell me where I can find your friends.”

York’s throat is so dry he can barely breathe. “What do you want with them?”

“Kid, you joking?” says Viper, eyebrows raised. “They’re Kisigino’s two right-hand stooges, you think I’m gonna let people with the kinda intel they must have out of my grasp? Fuck that.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” says York. “How do I know you have any of what you say –”

Sighing, Viper pulls a tablet out of his pocket, and this time it takes him no time at all to find exactly what he wants. “Here,” he says, walking over to York and holding out the tablet for him to read; for a second York doesn’t know whether to lean in or flinch away. “The production stats for those enhancements. They look legit to your little headmate?”

York won’t even begin to try and read that, the bright cyan letters are blurring together painfully in his vision as it is. _D?_

 _I think –_ D says, hesitant – _I believe Viper is telling the truth. About the enhancement’s capabilities, at least. Whether he has an AI capable of running them is less certain –_

“D’s not so sure you have an AI,” says York.

Viper sighs, scratching his head. “I got computers, don’t I? Same thing.”

Gasoline anger fumes into life inside York and he struggles fruitlessly at his restraints, how dare Viper suggest that, how _dare_ he, D is so much more –

 _It’s all right,_ says D, unfazed. _I imagine to many we are a similar concept._

 _Not to me,_ growls York.

_What do you classify F.I.L.S.S. as, then?_

That stymies York, enough so that he stops thrashing while Viper ambles back to his seat. _Guess I never thought about that._

 _Might be something to keep in mind,_ says D. _Also, don’t stop working at your bonds, the wires around your wrists seem to be very tight but I imagine with a little more room the ones around your ankles could easily be slipped off the ends of the chair legs._

“So,” says Viper, seating himself. “You satisfied?”

“Whu-? Uh, yeah, I guess,” says York, trying to surreptitiously wiggle his ankles and loosen the wires. It hurts. “I mean, you could have just faked everything you showed me…”

“That’s right,” says Viper, crossing his ankle over his knee again. “I could have.”

“So why,” says York thickly, “why should I turn in my friends, the enhancements, anything, because of what you say –”

“You mean you don’t wanna know?” says Viper, eyes widening behind his glasses. “Shit, son, and here I thought you’d take any chance you could for your friends…”

York just stares at him, heart pounding in his chest. “Nice try,” he rasps, not knowing what else to say. “They’re all dead.”

“Are they?” Viper pulls out his tablet again, and once more he locates the file he wants with quick efficiency. “David -----, aka Agent Washington, last seen on Io two days ago but looks like he’s been all over the place, must be busy – or how about this guy, ----- -----, aka Agent North Dakota, last spotted in the Cygnus System about a week back – looks like he’s been up to some shit too –”

York’s wrists are straining so much against their restraints that the wires might legitimately break through his skin, he can’t breathe, his head hurts more than ever but he _doesn’t care_ because they’re alive, _they’re alive, North and Wash are alive_ –

 _We don’t know,_ cautions D, _he could be lying, this could be fabricated information –_

“How do you know that?” manages York.

“Oh, I got my ways –”

“What about Carolina?”

“Hmm?” says Viper, already returning the tablet to his pocket. “Who? Oh, if you want to know more you gotta give me something, I can’t just be spilling everything…”

 _Ask about verification,_ says D. _What does he want from us?_

“How,” says York, “how would it – logistically –” if he can lie, if he can lie his way out of this –

“Look, let’s just keep this simple,” says Viper. “You tell me where Jahani and Kimene are, I send my boys over. The second my people come back with the enhancements, I take you over to my base, we plug those suckers in and you have all the info on your buddies that you could possibly want.”

York stares at him, vaguely conscious of his shaking arms. _D –_ he says – _D, what do I do, I don’t know –_ Instinct is screaming at him to do it, tell Viper anything he wants to know, he’s only known Jahani and Kimene a few days, they’re nothing, nothing compared to North and Wash and Carolina and Tex and…

 _Hey,_ says Tex. _Never abandon your team._

She’s standing just the side of Viper, black armor scuffed like the last time he saw her, scratches on her visor. North watches York sadly from over Tex’s shoulder, and York swallows hard against the sudden chill of guilt. _North,_ he says, _North, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left, I should have stuck with you –_

 _I was on the_ Invention _when it crashed,_ says North.

_I know._

_You never even looked for me. You ran._ His eyes are burning holes into York. _You ran away and you never looked back._

_I…_

_And what about me?_ says Wash. _Jesus, dude, you knew I was in the medical bay when the ship went down, you knew I was fucked up, you never came after me once –_

_I’m sorry –_

_Sorry doesn’t fix anything._ Carolina has her helmet under her arm, eyes fixed on York like an austere goddess of judgment. _But you know what can._

York stares at them, all four of them, his eyes burning and throat tight, muscles in his jaw clenched. _I know,_ he says. _I know –_

_So why aren’t you?_

_Because –_ York clenches his fists until his nails dig into his palms, the wires cutting into his wrists. _D, help me,_ he says. _I don’t know what to do, tell me, what do I decide, what’s – what’s logical, what’s_ right _–_

There is a long silence. _I do not know,_ says D.

For a second York doesn’t know what to think. _You don’t know, what do you mean you don’t know, how can you not know –_

 _I mean I simply do not know._ D sounds quiet, defeated. _I was never designed to handle these kinds of problems._

“Take your time, Agent York,” says Viper, from the edge of York’s attention. “I know it’s a tough decision.”

 _York_ , says Carolina.

He sighs, dropping his head to his chest, and because he cannot bear to look Viper in the face he shuts his eyes. “All right,” he says quietly.

“What’s that?”

“All right,” repeats York with sick desperation, raising his head, eyes burning. There’s a knot of pain growing between his shoulders in accompaniment to the throbbing in his head. “I’ll do it, okay? I’ll tell you where they are.”

Viper smiles and touches a finger to his ear. “Dunde – Dunde, right?” he says.

York can’t hear the reply, but D can. _Yeah, Bosi?_

“Hey, is – get everyone ready, I got an address incoming –” He looks expectantly at York.

Sighing, York opens his mouth, and for a second the words are stuck on his tongue. “247 Webiga Street,” he finally says. “The Eden Motel, room 15.”

“247 Web – what street?”

York repeats himself.

“247 Webiga Street, Eden Motel, room 15,” Viper says. “You got that?”

_Yeah, Bosi._

“Okay great, go do your thing.”

York sinks back into his chair, the shades of North and Wash and Tex and Carolina still silently watching him. _I did it,_ he says. _I betrayed Jahani and Kimene for you. Happy now?_

None of them respond; they all just stare at him. _Never abandon your team,_ Tex repeats at last.

 _D,_ says York, _I did the right thing, right? I didn’t – I didn’t give up on them –_

_If reuniting with the Freelancers is your highest priority then yes, you did the logical thing._

_Then - then why do I feel like shit…_

The minutes ooze by. Viper’s on his tablet, scrolling through things and only half paying attention to York, who starts trying to sneakily loosen his ankle ties again. He’s not sure he’s getting anywhere with it, though.

The silence is really starting to get to him.

“So,” he says. “Is this normally what you do in your spare time? Kidnap innocent freelancers and force them into giving you valuable information?”

Viper doesn’t look up from his tablet.

“I bet it is,” says York, looking around him and really assessing his surroundings for the first time. Turning his head hurts. It’s a bare concrete room with some exposed piping down the walls, he’s not about to try and look up at the ceiling. The light source is a solitary industrial lamp on a pole, there’s another one opposite it turned off. _Definitely_ abandoned warehouse. “This looks like the kind of place for it,” continues York. “You bring a lot of people in here to interrogate? There’s no bloodstains on the floor, that’s comforting…”

The only sound from Viper is the soft tapping of his fingers on the tablet screen.

“You know, with a little interior decorating this place wouldn’t be half bad,” says York. “I mean, it all depends on what kind of vibe you’re going for. Right now it’s very util – utili – D, what’s the fucking word?”

_Utilitarian._

“Utilitarian,” continues York. “But I bet you could class it up a bit, paint the walls, get some cool lighting – or maybe you want to go for that medieval torture chamber look, get some rusty chains and spikes, maybe you could dress up the walls to look like stone bricks…”

Still no response.

York sighs and shifts uneasily in his chair (is he imagining it or is there just a little bit more give to his ankle restraints?), fingers jittering against the metal chair legs. “Man, I’m starving,” he says, and it’s true. “How long are we gonna wait? You think you could send someone out to grab me a burrito or something? No? Come on, I didn’t have breakfast, you can’t just let me sit here all morning without food… That’s cruel and unusual punishment, man.”

 _I don’t think it’s working,_ says D.

 _What else am I supposed to do?_ “Come on, I could really use something to eat… It’s funny, you know, you don’t realize how important food is until you don’t have it? I mean, it’s not like I ever thought it was _unimportant_ , I love food, fuck yeah, but like, it’s a whole different perspective when you can’t just get it when you want… Hey, there was that one time where I hadn’t worked in three weeks and I didn’t have any money and I ended up asking people for food outside of some shitty fry-and-go place… No one bought me anything, can you believe it? Must have been the armor, bet they thought I was lying about not having money. Or maybe they were just intimidated.” York sighs, reflecting. “These rugged good looks don’t translate well through the helmet. Which, by the way, where is it? I mean you got it somewhere, right? That helmet’s fuckin’ important to me, man, you better be taking care of it…”

Viper is still engrossed in his tablet. York bounces his heels against the chair legs, looks around him for distraction – he still feels nauseous but now he’s also acutely aware of how hungry he is, that’s fun, and he’s also ninety-five percent sure he’s lost feeling in his left hand.

_You have not._

“Man,” sighs York, “and I thought everything was going so well, I was gonna be home free –”

“Kid,” says Viper, “shut the _fuck_ up.”

“Well, someone’s gotta provide the entertainment,” retorts York. “You sure aren’t.”

“No,” says Viper, “what you gotta do is sit still and keep your mouth shut before I put my fist down your throat.”

York does not want this; if he’s silent for too long North and Wash and Tex and Carolina will come back, and he’s worried about what they’ll say to him then. “Look –”

“You wanna talk to somebody, talk to the thing you got living in your head,” says Viper. “Just keep it fucking quiet.”

 _Okay,_ says York, _this guy’s technophobic attitude is really getting on my nerves…_

 _That’s the only thing?_ says D wearily.

_I…well…you know…_

_Bosi,_ says a voice in Viper’s communicator. _We got a problem._

Viper stiffens, frowing. “What, what do you mean, you got a problem?”

_Dere’s no one heah. De motel room’s cleaned out._

Viper’s glaring daggers at York, whose heart is pounding in some terrifying combination of relief and despair. “Are you sure it’s the right room?”

_Yeah, yeah, front desk lady remembers them, girl with red hair and tall guy, said they checked out in a hurry ovah an hour ago._

“Shit,” sighs Viper. “All right, just – try to find them, I guess –”

_Dere’s one othah thing. Kisigino’s heah._

The transformation on Viper’s face is fascinating and subtle; first his expression goes very still, like a hunter scenting its prey, and then a wicked glitter starts up in his eyes. “Are they?” he says.

_Yeah. Or on deir way._

“Let me know when they get here,” says Viper, and breaks communication. He’s looking at York for some kind of reaction, but all York can process is _they got away, how did they know –_

 _Ah,_ says D. _That would be me._

York freezes. _You? You told them that –_

_When we were initially apprehended in the street, I sent a pre-configured distress message to Jahani and Kimene. Capture by Viper was a very good possibility, and I thought if he did seize us, he would be very interested in their whereabouts._

_Did you…did you think I would turn them in?_

_I also considered that to be a possibility._

“You lied,” says Viper.

“What?” says York. “No, they were there, that’s what he said –”

“That’s where they _were,_ ” corrects Viper, getting to his feet and putting a hand in his pocket. For a second York doesn’t think anything of it, and then Viper pulls his hand back out and York sees the light glint off the scalpel blade.

 _You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,_ hisses York, going tense.

 _We’ve endured worse,_ says D, grim. _I suggest you keep working on those wires –_

“Yeah, I know, you’re not too happy about this,” says Viper, twirling the scalpel between his fingers. “You wanna tell me where your friends are? And I mean tell me for real –”        

“Look,” says York through gritted teeth. “I don’t know where they are now –”

“Oh, I wish I believed you,” sighs Viper, advancing towards York, whose vision is fixed on the scalpel. “Bet you’re expecting me to pull out the rubber gloves and start slicing you up, huh, right where it hurts? But nah, there’s only two cuts I need to be making.” He taps the back of his own neck with the handle of the scalpel. “Right here.”

York freezes in sudden abject panic because no no _no no NO NO NO,_ _he can’t take D, he can’t, it’s wrong, no –_ D is flipping out like only he can, running potential outcomes and solutions until York’s head is full of frantic green numbers.

“Oh,” says Viper, watching the blood drain out of York’s face. “Not so happy about that one, are we?”

“Go to hell,” manages York, no no no, this is not happening, this is _not happening,_ York can’t breathe and his heart is pounding in his chest and his vision is splintering into lines of green –

“Maybe later.” Viper’s in York’s blind spot – York pulls away in blind reflex, tugging at his restraints, rocking the chair, everything is viridian and the panic and rage inside him is at a fever pitch – “I got shit to do for now.”

Viper grips the top of York’s head and there’s a cold prick of pain at the back of York’s neck and something explodes inside him, he’s seeing the world crystal-clear like he’s never seen it before and the pure distilled anger running through him is metallic and calculated and he knows right now, _he can do anything –_

“You know,” say York and D together, “that was _really_ the wrong threat to make.”

They yank their head out of Viper’s grasp and headbutt him straight in the stomach, and while he’s still wheezing they rock the chair back on its hind legs, kick the wires off the chair legs, and are on their feet.

“Wha –” manages Viper.

York and D grab onto the chair legs, tuck their legs and jump back over the chair so they’re now holding it in front, and at the back of their mind is a dim awareness of physical pain but it is nothing compared to the crystalline rage. Viper staggers back, holding the scalpel like a sword in front of them, shouting for reinforcements.

“They can’t hear you,” York and D say. “We fried your communicator.”

Gripping the chair tight by the back legs, they kick it into a folded position and swing it at Viper like a baseball bat. He crumples to the floor like wet paper, scalpel skittering across the concrete.

“You can’t…” groans Viper, blood from his nose and mouth smeared on the ground. “How…”

He tries weakly to lift his head; York and D walk over and put a foot on his head, bare heel pushing into his cheek, Viper’s glasses somehow still on but bent horribly askew, the lenses cracked. “You shouldn’t have underestimated us,” York and D say, grinding his face into the floor, holding the chair against their chest. “That’s been everyone’s mistake.”

“I –”

“Where’s our armor?”

“I don’t –”

York and D step down harder. “We said, where’s our armor?”

Viper snarls feebly, struggling. “Out back – my guys are there too –”

“We’ll handle them,” York and D say grimly, and shift to put all their weight on his neck, chair lifted and ready to strike down –

 _Wait,_ says part of them. _Are we sure we want to do this?_

_He tried to separate us, he will only retaliate with more violence, he controls a large criminal organization, it is only logical –_

There's a brief sense that long ago, this would have bothered them, or at last part of them, but this is now. _Yeah, you’re right._ And they smash the chair down on his head.

Viper's skull breaks with a wet crunch and blood spurts up, and then his whole body goes slack. York and D stare down at the carnage, red pooling around their feet, and part of them feels completely detached, only coolly satisfied that a threat has been removed, while the other can smell copper and their arms are shaking, and…

York gasps, his consciousness splintering from D’s, and he staggers backwards, dragging the chair along the floor. It leaves a blood trail. _D,_ he says, half-sobbing, _D, you’re still here, it’s okay –_

 _I know –_ says D, and he sound shaky too. _I am here –_

 _D, I love you, buddy, let’s never do that again, oh my God_ – York wiggles his wrists in the restraints, finds that now he can turn them at the right angle to just get his fingers against the twisted ends of the wires and start undoing them. _Is – is anyone coming –_

_Not that I can tell._

_All right._ York’s got one hand free and the other quickly follows suit, and the second he’s free of the chair he’s raced back over to Viper’s body, stripping off his jacket and shoes before the blood gets on them. Both are a little too small, but York’ll manage, and he grabs Viper’s wallet and keys and handgun as well. “Rest in peace, you motherfucker,” he mutters to Viper’s drooping eyelids and lifeless mouth. Now that he's separated from D all the myriad hurts are reasserting themselves with full force, the sore spot at the back of his head, the strained muscles in his shoulders, the raw pain at his wrists and ankles -

 _Now what?_ says D.

 _We need to find Jahani and Kimene,_ says York, putting the gun in his waistband and heading towards the door. _If Kisigino’s coming for them, Kisigino’s finding them, and they’ll need all the help they can get._

_York –_

_What?_ he snaps, handle on the door. _D, if you’re going to lecture me –_

_Are you doing this for practical reasons, or to assuage your own guilt?_

_What? Either. Both. Neither. Who gives a fuck?_

_I do._

_They need our help, and I ratted them out, and if I can do something about it I will._ York pauses; he can’t see North and Tex and Wash and Carolina, but he knows they’re behind him, their gazes heavy on his back. _At least this time I won’t leave them behind._ York doesn’t have words, just a series of sensations – Kimene’s hand on his back, Jahani’s shoulder bumping against his, hot sun in the back of a car, Kimene softly asking if he’s okay, Jahani’s sharp-toothed smile, the warmth of human contact, driving together, fighting together…

 _It’s okay,_ says Tex, and York turns around to look at her. _I understand._

 _I’m – I can’t change the past,_ he says.  _I would if I could –_

_I know._

_York._ Carolina’s still looking straight at him with those impossibly gold-green eyes and just the sight of her makes York ache into a thousand tiny pieces, he wants her, he _misses_ her, just needs to have her fiery determination and implacable strength at his side. _It’s okay._

 _I’m sorry,_ he says. _I’m sorry I couldn’t save you –_

 _I know,_ and her voice is quiet, forgiving. _It wasn’t your fault._

 _You’ll find us again,_ says Tex. _And you won’t need to betray others to do it._

 _Yeah,_ answers York, taking a deep breath. _Yeah, I – okay._

 _You’re making the right choice,_ says North, and god, York misses him too, he misses them all so much he can barely stand it. _Don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay._

 _Hey,_ says Wash. _Do me a favor, all right? Don’t forget me. Keep looking._

_I will, I will, promise –_

_Now get out of here,_ says Tex. _You’ve only got so long before Viper’s goons start looking for you._

 _Right,_ says York, taking a deep breath; as the freelancers fade away there’s a faint hint of green. _Let’s go._


	12. The Burning Sword

_He’s not on the_ Invention. _He’s not on a snowy mountain. He’s somewhere that’s a bit of both, snow drifting down through ruined steel beams, the air around him vast and black and echoing._

D, _he says,_ where the hell are we?

I do not know.

Is – is this a dream?

 _York takes a step forward and the ground creaks ominously under his feet, metal plates shifting and snow falling through the gaps into the void below._ Okay, so not doing that, _he says, halting immediately._ D, tell me, buddy, what’s going on –

I repeat, I do not know – _and then he’s there, shimmering on York’s right shoulder, emerald green among the white and black. Something in York’s head says this is odd, that he’s projecting, but why should it be?_ But I don’t think this is a real place.

Yeah, no shit… _Trying not to move his weight, York rotates slowly in place, assessing his surroundings. He has the uneasy feeling that they’re changing subtly behind his back every time he turns._ What are we doing here?

I think – _says D, and then blinks out of existence._

D? _shouts York._ D! _He can’t see him, can’t hear him, can’t feel him – heart pounding, York spins on the spot again, but as he does so his heel slips on the slick metal and he stumbles backward and the ground’s given way beneath his feet, there’s nothing under him, he’s falling –_

\--

York zooms through the streets, hands gripping the motorcycle handlebars tight, wind tearing at his jacket, glare off the road dimmed by his helmet visor. He’s barely steering, just following D’s directions – _straight, keep going, turn left here, quick right here –_

Immediately after busting through the back door of the warehouse he’d found himself in a courtyard with three of Viper’s goons. It had taken no time at all to gun them down, but as York rushed for the black crate that he was sure contained his armor, a whole SUV of them had pulled up, guns ready to blaze.

The most important piece was his helmet and so York had grabbed that, shot two of them, put his helmet on and raced towards the nearest motorcycle. It took D barely a second to hack the ignition and then he was off, tearing out of the courtyard just as another SUV fishtailed inside.

 _They still on our tail, D?_ says York.

 _I believe we’ve lost them._ D’s got his hands full, seeing if anyone’s tracking York as well as trying to pinpoint Jahani and Kimene’s location, but he’s vibrant and humming with energy. _You’ll want to make a left here –_

York wheels the motorcycle around, almost flipping it, but he maintains balance and then he’s zooming down the metallic road, weaving between cars so quickly he barely even hears them honk. _Tell me you got a location on Jahani and Kimene._

 _I do,_ says D. _You will be there shortly._

 _Great._ The air’s tearing through York’s shirt, his head and shoulders still ache, his feet in the too-small boots are pinched and cramped and he’s never felt more alive. It doesn’t matter what the world throws at him at this point, he’s got D, he’s got his mission, and he’s going to make everything okay –

_On your left, the building under construction._

Building is a generous term; right now it’s a hodgepodge of steel beams and concrete floors stretching jaggedly to the sky. York parks in front of it, letting the motorcycle crash to the pavement as he hops off. _Tell me they’re not –_

_On the top floor? No._

_Thank God._

_They’re on the tenth floor._

York dashes up the metal scaffolding stairs two at a time, breath scraping in his chest, the pain at the back of his head worse than ever. “Jahani!” he shouts when he’s getting close, because he has a feeling they’re going to shoot first, ask questions later. “Kimene! It’s Foxtrot!”

He skids to a halt on the tenth floor and bends over with his hands on his knees, wheezing. “What the hell happened to you?” shouts Kimene, and York looks up to see her striding towards him, gun in hand. “One minute everything’s fine, and then literally _every piece of technology we own_ is broadcasting this freaking warning from your AI –”

_Really, D?_

_I had to be sure the message would be heard,_ says D, unflappable.

“What happened?” demands Kimene. Jahani slowly walks up to stand beside her, eyes narrowed at York.

“Viper grabbed me,” says York, straightening. “Wanted me to turn you guys in for information on the freelancers. He’s dead now.”

Both Kimene and Jahani stare at him. “He’s dead?” says Kimene.

York nods.

Kimene lets out a long whistle, hands on her hips; Jahani is continuing to watch York with a strange expression. “Did you?” he says.

“Did _I_ kill Viper? Yeah –”

“No,” says Jahani. “Did you do it? Did you turn us in.”

York stares at him, mouth dry. “Of course not,” he says.

Jahani sighs, hands in his pockets. “Sure you didn’t.”

“Jahani –” says Kimene quietly.

“You did, didn’t you? You turned us in.”

York doesn’t have the stomach to say anything, his muteness as good a confirmation as any. “Fuck,” sighs Jahani, tilting his head back and turning away. “You son of a bitch –”

“Look,” says York, “all I did was give Viper your address, and you were already gone by the time his guys got there –”

“Did you know we’d be gone?” says Jahani, savage. There are furious tears in Kimene’s eyes.

“No,” admits York, hanging his head.

“You son of a _bitch!_ ” says Jahani, and punches him.

York grunts and staggers back, recovering and ready to defend himself, but Jahani doesn’t seem to be moving to hit him again. “After everything we did for you –” Jahani shouts.

“Are you kidding?” York retorts. “If it wasn’t for me you guys would be dead in the desert –”

“I can’t believe you,” says Kimene, dangerously quiet. “How _could_ you.”

“Look,” snarls York, shaking, “you don’t know the choice I had to make, you weren’t there –”

“You traded us in for info on your dead buddies –”

“I don’t know if they’re dead!” yells York. “I don’t know, that’s the whole point, these were my friends and I _left_ them, I abandoned them, how could I – how could I not try to make that right –”

“Not by doing this,” says Kimene.

Jahani, still glaring at York, reaches down to pick up the gun he dropped and starts walking over to the pile of their luggage. “Come on, Kimene,” he says. “Let’s go. He’s probably got Snakes trailing him to find us already.”

Giving York a long disdainful look, Kimene follows after Jahani. D is still silent and York wishes he’d say something, _anything,_ that will make him feel better –

_What is there to say?_

“Wait!” says York, and Jahani and Kimene both pause while picking up duffel bags. “You should know. Viper said Kisigino was in Afgoye.”

The two of them look at each other, Kimene paling. “We’ll manage,” says Jahani grimly.

“Let me help you.”

“It’s a little late for that,” says Jahani, stalking towards the stairs with a bag slung over each shoulder. But Kimene pauses, looking at York intently.

“Why?” she says. “Why do you want to help? Redemption?”

“I… maybe,” says York. “Possibly. All I know is I couldn’t live with myself if I abandoned my team again.”

“That’s nice,” says Jahani acidly. “But we don’t need your help –”

He falls silent at the same time York becomes conscious of hearing a loud mechanical chuffing. _Helicopter,_ says D.

York expects it to fade away in a second or so, but it just keeps growing louder and louder – “It’s awfully close, isn’t it?” says Kimene apprehensively.

“Maybe.” Jahani has to raise his voice to be heard now. “I’m sure it’ll pass –”

The building quivers and there is the unmistakable sound of something heavy landing on the roof above them. Kimene pales even more, staring up at the ceiling – “You think –”

“I think we should go,” snaps Jahani, slinging a bag over his shoulder and rushing down the stairs, Kimene immediately following him. York grabs two duffels at random and hurries after them, the fact that there’s a helicopter landing on the _unfinished_ building they’re in is way too much of a coincidence –

 _The tech on the helicopter is protected,_ says D, sounding worried. _I can’t read it –_

York clatters down the scaffolding stairs after Jahani and Kimene, careful not to catch his shoes on the steps and go tumbling –

“Hold the fuck up!” shouts someone, and York nearly crashes into Kimene. He can just see over Jahani’s shoulder and there’s a whole crowd of people at the foot of the stairs, in the black combat gear of Viper’s people, and there’s about a dozen guns trained on the three of them –

York’s hand’s already halfway to his gun when he’s stopped by D. _We’re too outnumbered, the quarters are too close,_ says D. _Chances of surviving an armed encounter would be less than forty percent. Chances of all four of us surviving, less than fifteen._

“Drop the bags, hands up!” yells the woman in front – Mulifi, York recognizes her. “Hands where I can see them, all three of you!”

Sighing, York sets down the duffels and slowly raises his hands; Jahani and Kimene do as well, but as they do so Jahani shoots York a vicious look. Three Snakes have already moved up the stairs and are searching them for weapons – “Grab the bags!” orders Mulifi. Gloved hands chafe down York’s back and legs, reach inside his jacket, and he stiffens like a live wire and grits his teeth –

“All right, come on,” says one of the Snakes, brandishing the gun he took from York at him. “Up the stairs –”

“No sudden movements!” barks Mulifi. “Freelancer, you move a _finger_ you’re not supposed to and I will unload this entire goddamn clip in your head –”

They turn and march up the stairs, York’s hands still up by his head – oh, how he hates not wearing his armor, how he _hates_ being this unprotected – “You fucking piece of shit,” hisses Jahani from behind him, and for a second York thinks he’s talking to one of the Snakes. “You set this up, too, you led them straight to us, you with all your ‘I’m sorry I did it, let me help you’ _bullshit –_ ”

“What?” says York. “No –”

“Yeah, right –”

“Don’t bother,” says Kimene dully. “It doesn’t change anything at this point.”

York’s legs burn as they continue to climb stairs, D analyzing everything from weapons carried to angles for headshots to best routes to run away –

 _We’re not leaving without Kimene and Jahani,_ says York. _We get out all together, or not at all._

_Your loyalty is noted but it drastically decreases our chances of a successful escape –_

_I don’t care! I don’t care, okay? I don’t care if it’s stupid –_

_“Stupid” is not the word I would use –_

_D, I don’t give a shit, okay, if it’s stupid or impractical or illogical or –_

_The word I would use is “admirable.”_

York nearly misses a step but recovers (no thanks to the Snake who shoves him in the back). _D –_

_I wish I could think like you. Not all the time, of course, but I envy your capacity to put ethics above logic._

They’re heading to the top of the building, York knows it, and he’s wheezing. Once they do get up there, there’ll be more room to maneuver, he can formulate some kind of plan and hopefully this _asshole_ won’t have a gun pressed up against his _neck_ –

“Hey, watch it,” snarls Jahani, and there’s the sound of him stumbling. York glances back and sees that he’s livid, glaring at the Snake closest to him, but Kimene looks… shit, she looks _defeated,_ head down, pale and silent, barely lifting her feet high enough to clear the steps.

Well, this sure as hell won’t do.

They finally make it up to the top of the building, York’s visor tinting patchily to adjust for blinding sunlight, a stitch in his chest and the muscles in his calves knotted, arms burning from keeping his hands in the air. There’s the helicopter, a big grey ugly-looking thing, and the Snakes line York, Jahani, and Kimene up in front of it. York doesn’t miss that over half the guns – _Eight out of twelve, by my count,_ says D _–_ are trained on him alone.

The helicopter door opens, revealing a seated Savoyard.

“Holy shit,” blurts out York. “You look awful.”

Savoyard glares at him. “Hit him,” she says, a Snake helping her step out of the helicopter, and then York’s bent over gasping as the butt of a rifle hits him in the gut. Staggering, he holds his stomach and looks up at Savoyard through a watering eye. She really does look bad, arm in a sling, nose clearly broken and with two bruised eyes to match. Once off the helicopter, though, she stands unassisted and surly. “Where’s his armor?” she snaps.

“He wasn’t wearing it when we captured them, Bosi,” says Mulifi.

Savoyard turns her glare on her. “He had it when Viper got him, yes?”

“I – I believe so –”

“So then it’s still at the _warehouse._ ” Savoyard could not sound more exasperated. “Send someone there and get it!”

Mulifi nods and turns away, finger to her communicator, issuing rapid instructions in French. Jahani and Kimene have both been cuffed, Kimene without any fight at all, and apparently Jahani’s caught on to this because he’s looking at her with evident worry. But Savoyard’s slowly approaching York, and he doesn’t like the look in her eyes at all –

“Whoa, hey there,” says York hands in front of him, backing up instinctually. He backs straight into someone, and then before he knows it he’s got a bruiser on either side holding him tight by the arm, and another one behind him with an arm around his neck. York grunts and struggles, but they’ve got him essentially pinned – _D, help –_

_The instep –_

York tries to step on one of their feet and immediately the barrel of a gun is pressed hard to his ankle. “Try that, and I blow your foot off,” grunts the bruiser holding the gun. The guy behind him yanks his arm up against York’s Adam’s apple, and he chokes and tries to tug an arm free. _It’s okay_ , he thinks, his jaw wedged into his helmet. _It’s okay, we’ll be okay, just –_

“Still hiding behind that helmet,” says Savoyard with deliberate scorn, and hooks her fingers under its edge –

“ _No,_ ” blurts York, struggling fruitlessly, heart pounding in his chest, not here, not in front of everyone, no no no – “don’t – please –”

Savoyard’s lips tighten ruthlessly, and she grips the helmet, tearing it up and off and York yelps in protest, straining in his captors’ grasp and _oh God_ the helmet’s off and there’s air on his naked face and everyone can see him, he’s exposed, he’s –

Savoyard tosses the helmet aside and it hits the ground with a dull clatter. York winces, D running panic matrices in a desperate attempt to throw up protection, a shield, anything – “Well,” says Savoyard, dry as bone, “you’re looking better.”

“Fuck you,” says York, and spits at her.

The blow from her hand comes sharp and lightning-quick, cracking across York’s cheekbone and sending his ears ringing. Groaning, York shakes his head, spits out blood. “Don’t _ever_ speak to me that way again,” says Savoyard.

“What do you want?” growls York.

 _Humiliation,_ says D rapidly, _she has the armor, she has the tech, she has us, she wants revenge for what you did to her –_

“I’m trying to decide whether you’re more useful to me dead or alive,” says Savoyard. Behind her, more Snakes are coming up the stairs with Jahani and Kimene’s luggage and loading it onto the helicopter. “Because I’m not taking you up in that copter alive unless I need to.”

“You better be damn sure you want me dead,” snarls York. “Because if you do I will not stay dead for long, I will rise from the grave like a motherfucking zombie and hunt you down –”

Savoyard _tchs,_ a soft sound of disdain. “I don’t think so.”

“Well you’re wrong –”

“Bosi!” shouts Mulifi, striding over. Savoyard whips around, eyes narrowing like a predatory cat’s. “We got the armor –”

 _That’s mine,_ breathes York, palms tingling. _That’s mine, that’s my armor, that’s –_

“Good,” Savoyard says, grinning, teeth flashing white in the sunlight. “Are all their bags on the helicopter?”

“Yes, Bosi.”

“Then grab the tranqs, let’s dose all three of them and go –”

“No, don’t do that,” says one of the Snakes, pulling off their helmet, revealing a young face, androgynous, with dark skin and darker eyes. “Really.”

“You –” blurts out Jahani; Kimene sucks in a breath, snapping her head up.

“Yes, me,” says Kisigino, twirling a pistol through their gloved fingers.

Savoyard takes two vicious steps towards them before three or four gunmen have moved in to flank Kisigino protectively, another two stepping towards Savoyard. She stops short with what’s practically a hiss, uninjured fist clenching. “What are _you_ doing here?” she snarls, French accent pronounced.

“Protecting my investments,” says Kisigino, tilting their head towards Jahani and Kimene. It’s hot under the sun, the light bouncing off the concrete roof, gleaming on the metal barrels of guns. York’s shirt is sticky with sweat, his throat dry –

 _York,_ says D. _The odds are no longer thirteen versus four, they are six versus seven versus four –_

 _– which is significantly better…_ He sucks in a breath, straining his head to try and look at the people holding him, assess their weak spots –

“We’re not your property!” snaps Kimene, struggling against the man holding her arms. “We don’t belong to you, you don’t _own_ us –” Whatever lethargy struck her earlier is completely gone –

 _She was in all probability faking the dejection,_ says D. _Making herself less of a threat._

“Anyway,” says Kisigino. “I’d like that freelancer, please.”

“No,” snaps Savoyard. “He’s mine. Him, _and_ the AI.”

“Half the spoils should be mine –”

“You’ve got half!” shouts Savoyard, gesturing to Jahani and Kimene. “Two out of four –”

“They don’t _count_ ,” sighs Kisigino, “they were already mine –”

“Hey, fuck you!” yells Jahani.

 _Okay, D, talk me through this –_ says York. _What’ve we got –_

_MA2B on your left, MA3 on your right, every other Snake armed with one or the other except Mulifi, she has an MA5K and an M41, Savoyard has an M6D –_

M41 is a rocket launcher. _We could use that –_

_– and the helicopter is fully equipped with both guns and rockets –_

_Helicopter,_ repeats York. Helicopter.

“Pity,” Kisigino is saying, “I thought you’d be more reasonable than your predecessor –”

“I’m not interested in being reasonable,” snaps Savoyard. “I’m interested in getting what’s mine.”

“Entitled, aren’t you –”

 _D,_ says York, _is there some way you could get a message to Kimene or Jahani?_ Now that he’s stopped fighting, the hold on his neck has definitely relaxed, for which he is grateful, but there’s still iron grips on his arms and a gun loosely aimed at his foot –

_I could, but they would not be able to read it._

_Well, let’s hope they’re quick on the uptake._

“There are twenty more of my people downstairs,” snaps Savoyard, “so why –”

“Are they?” Kisigino taunts. “Are they yours?”

“You are a _child_ ,” hisses Savoyard, lunging towards Kisigino, “a spoiled child with delusions of power –”

Suddenly half the guns present are pointed at her, and the other half pointed at Kisigino – including the MA3 on York’s right. _York,_ says D. _Look to Kimene._

He obeys and makes eye contact with her, she’s staring straight at him. _What?_ she mouths.

_D, what do I –_

_Faint._

York crumples, muscles sagging, eye shut, dragging down his two captors. “Hey, Bosi!” one of them shouts. “Uh –”

 _There is a gun directly to your right and two feet up,_ says D.

“Now _what,_ ” snarls Savoyard.

York’s lying on the concrete, the sun baking into his skin, he can taste copper on the back of his tongue –

“Now!” shouts Jahani, and a gun fires.

York springs into life, and there’s the gun exactly where D said it would be and he grabs and fires up, one down, scrambles to his feet and aims for the first black-clad figure he sees, about three different people are shouting –

 _Two on your left, shoot the taller one first, then the two marks by Jahani –_ York fells them one two three, runs full tilt towards the helicopter, scooping his helmet up along the way –

“Stop him!” shouts Savoyard –

D yanks York’s head down just as a bullet streaks over him, York throws himself in the helicopter, bang bang the pilot’s down, he ducks instinctively as more shots fire but they’re not at him –

“Don’t shoot the helicopter, that’s mine!” yells Savoyard, and York puts his helmet on, pokes his head out of cover to see Kimene armed and cuffless, she’s dueling two people at once, Jahani’s still cuffed but also fighting, more fighters are rushing up the stairs but Kisigino and Savoyard’s people have absolutely got their guns on each other –

“Grab my armor!” York yells, and takes a shot at Savoyard. He misses only because she lunges at Kisigino again, who’s got four gunmen protecting them now.

More people on the roof means more people shooting at him, and York’s forced to duck behind the door, two people rush up towards the helicopter and he headshots them, blood spattered like constellations on the concrete roof. _Holy shit,_ he realizes, _I can say it, I can say the thing –_

Wrenching the door open, he takes another shot at Kisigino (that one of their guards blocks) and yells at the top of his lungs, “Get in the chopper!”

 _It’s get_ to _the chopper, actually –_

_You’re ruining my moment, D!_

“Stop them!” shouts Savoyard, wrenching free of one of Kisigino’s guards, at the same time Kisigino yells, “Don’t do it, you belong to me, I ORDER YOU –”

Jahani throws the bag of York’s armor into the helicopter and himself after, York shoots down another person, and another, Kimene’s still on the roof –

 _Get in the pilot’s seat, now_ , orders D.

York straps himself in, D taking over his hands to flip switches, press buttons –

“You know how to fly this thing?” says Jahani, breathless, buckling himself in.

“No, but D does –”

Kimene hurtles into the helicopter, chased by bullets, closing the door behind her. There’s blood all down the side of her face and her arm. Jahani’s staring at her, eyes wide. “Is that –”

“I got the rocket launcher,” she says, with grim pride.

The helicopter engine roars to life, blades spinning with deafening noise. “All right, here we go!” shouts York, D using his hands to grip the joystick, and they’re lifting off –

“Ohhh, shit,” says Jahani, and because he’s not flying York can turn to look back at him, he’s leaning back in his seat with a pale face and closed eyes –

“Wait!” yells Kimene, in York’s good ear. “Are we leaving?”

They’re already high up in the air, the sundrenched city falling away beneath them, though he can still see the building – “Why, you want to stay?”

“Delta, turn around!” Kimene shouts. “We can’t leave them alive –”

_D –_

_She’s right,_ says D smoothly. _It wouldn’t be logical._ And the helicopter descends.

York looks at the rocket launcher in Kimene’s arms, at the blazing, determined look on her face, how D’s angling the helicopter and suddenly it clicks –

“Wait,” he says to Kimene. “We can do better than that.” And he reaches forward and switches on the targeting for the helicopter missiles.

A vicious grin spreads across Kimene’s face.

They swing the helicopter around so it’s facing the building and York can see everyone on the roof staring at them, a couple people take shots but D dances the helicopter away easily. Savoyard and Kisigino are both in the center. “Hey, this thing has an intercom,” says York, switching it on. “Jahani? Kimene? Anything you want to say?”

Jahani shakes his head, looking queasy; Kimene stares at the speaker in York’s hand for a long moment. “No,” she says at last. “I have nothing to say to those people.”

“Good,” says York, aiming the rockets at the rooftop. “Me neither.” And he fires.

Three, four, five missiles stream out and at the building, smoke trails glistening white in the sun, and then they’ve hit and the top of the building is engulfed in flame, violent gold-orange billowing out, the helicopter shudders in the air and D flies it up and back –

“Bring the whole building down,” says Kimene grimly, leaning on the back of York’s chair and staring out the window. York looks up at her, at the sunlight highlighting her cut-metal profile, and is reminded suddenly and achingly of Carolina, both because of how they’re the same and how they’re different.

“Kimene,” says Jahani quietly, and then, “ _Ieva._ ”

She looks back at him, and York twists around to see them match gazes. For a second Jahani looks unsure, almost intensely vulnerable, and then his jaw hardens and he nods, skin bronze and eyes glittering copper. “I know,” he says.

Kimene holds his gaze for a moment longer, and then breaks it to turn away, her hair brushing against York’s shoulder as she folds her hand over his on the trigger. York looks back at the building – the rooftop is nothing but charred and cracked concrete, bodies scattered about it. He imagines he can pick out which one Savoyard is.

“Delta?” says Kimene. “You agree?”

D deliberates, and then there’s a funny shifting in the back of York’s head and for a second he feels intensely connected to the helicopter itself, its circuits and wires –

“I do,” says D, over the helicopter intercom. Kimene gasps, her hand tightening over York’s. “I believe it provides the necessary closure.”

“Holy shit,” breathes Jahani.

“Well,” says York, trying to keep his tone light. “Guess we’re all in agreement, then.” _Gotta say, it’s good to hear your outside voice, buddy._

_I am pleased you think so._

“All right,” says York, and aims the next batch of missiles at the building. “Here’s to ending this for once and for all.” And he fires.


	13. Epilogue

At some point in the past, York groans, flickering back to awareness. _D…_

 _You suffered a severe concussion,_ says D. _I am already administering pain medication._

There's a humming as of engines, and York has the sense he's moving quickly despite sitting still. He _is_ sitting, it feels like he's buckled into a chair, so that probably means…

York opens his eyes. He's in the copilot seat of a Pelican, snowy ground zooming away underneath, mountains appearing and disappearing into the fog. Turning his head – slowly, it hurts – he looks over to see Tex in the pilot’s seat, armor scuffed. “Tex?” he says. “What happened –”

“The _Invention_ crashed,” she says grimly. “You got knocked out, I went in and dragged you out before grabbing this ship and going.”

“Did we – did we do it? Did we get Alpha?” He's aware of a stinging pain all up and down his back as well.

There's a long silence, Tex looking straight in front of her. “No,” she says at last.

“Oh.” York sighs softly, aware of D’s quiet and piercing disappointment. But there's something else – an elevator, a lighter, floating in the dark – “What about Carolina?”

Tex’s hands tighten on the wheel until York can hear plastic creak. “She died,” Tex says. “Maine killed her.”

It’s like all sound, all air, all feeling has been sucked out of the Pelican. “What,” manages York.

“I saw it, I didn’t think he would, but – it’s not him, it’s Sigma fucking with his head –”

York stares at her, breath coming hard and shaky, hands and feet numb. “What do you mean, she _died_ , she can’t have – she can’t –”

“I saw it myself,” says Tex, with hard pity.

“What happened?” begs York, maybe there was a mistake, maybe Tex got it wrong. “Tex, tell me, tell me what happened –”

“What’s the point –”

“TELL ME!”

And so she does, succinctly at first, but York makes her go over it again and again, reciting every detail until he can picture it in his mind, the air swirling with snow, two figures on the edge of the cliff, one monstrous in white armor, the other turquoise and held up by her throat –

Tex sounds sure, so sure, Carolina is dead. And D is too, because, come on, Maine dropped her off a hundred-foot cliff. But York’s stubborn, and though he knows it isn't likely, he holds onto that one tiny piece of hope, that one little shred…

He parts ways with Tex at the nearest spaceport. And from there, he hops from planet to planet, system to system, until he makes his way back to Earth and Voi, Kenya…

_\--_

Overall, it’s probably not the best burger York’s ever eaten. The patty’s actual meat, so it’s got that going for it, but it’s thin and dry, the bun squished and accompanied by woeful smattering of sesame seeds, the lettuce wilted, the mustard so cheap he can barely taste its bite, the cheese very definitely simulated dairy product…

But regardless of all that, as York sits on the curb in his full armor gear, eating bites of cheeseburger under his helmet, it’s the most goddamn delicious meal he’s had all year.

 _Well, D?_ he sighs, looking around at the little side street they’re on. _How’s it feel to finally take a break?_

D deliberates as a car putters by, two women and a men on the opposite side of the street having an animated conversation in Arabic. _Boring,_ he says at last.

_And here I thought you’d be happy no one’s shooting at us, or threatening us, or trying to run us over…_

_No, I_ am _glad about that._

After they’d blown up the building in Afgoye, York had flown the helicopter away into a blazing noonday sky. From there it had been no time at all to Mogadishu, and when he’d landed and Kimene and Jahani had stepped off he’d had a sudden and unexpected moment of panic; this will be the last time he ever sees them again, they could die in a week and he’d never know –

“I’d say keep in touch, Foxtrot,” says Kimene, standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “But it’s probably not a good idea that you do.” It’s not a warning, just wry acknowledgement.

“I know.”

“Bye, Delta,” says Kimene, smiling. “It was nice meeting you.”

 _It was nice meeting you as well,_ says D, and York relays the message.

Jahani steps forward, looking vaguely chagrined, but then before York can react he’s pulled him into a hug. “Hey man, sorry about earlier,” he says, thumping York on the shoulder. “Mostly for punching you in the face –”

“No, no, I deserved it,” says York. Pulling back, he puts his hands on Jahani’s shoulders and looks him in the eyes. “But we’re all good now, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Jahani, and smiles that same self-assured grin that got York going in the first place. “Yeah, we’re good.”

“Good,” says York, smiling back.

“All right, well, we gotta go,” says Kimene, unloading the last of the duffel bags out of the helicopter. “Jahani, we gotta steal a car now if we want to get to your ‘aunt’ by afternoon…”

“Take care of yourself, Foxtrot,” says Jahani, and kisses him on the cheek too. “You too, Delta.”

_I will do my best._

And then they’re walking off with multiple duffel bags in tow, the sunlight glittering on Kimene’s fiery hair, gleaming on Jahani’s shoulders, and as York watches Kimene reaches out and twines her fingers through Jahani’s, holding his hand as they walk side-by-side.

 _Come on, D,_ York says. _Let’s go._

And so they’d gotten into the helicopter and flown north to Balcad, a much smaller city; they’d ditched the helicopter outside of town and hitched a ride in, and York’s still got money on his card for food and a motel, and hopefully no one here has ever heard of Viper or Kisigino or Savoyard or Project Fucking Freelancer…

 _Doubtful about the last one,_ says D. _But if it helps you to be optimistic I will not disprove the theory._

_Really?_

_This time._

York swallows and takes another bite of his cheeseburger. _We never did find out where Carolina might be, or Wash, or North…_

 _We simply have to continue looking,_ says D. _The information is out there. We just have to find it._

_If only it were that easy._

_I think it has been a long time since either of us did something that could be classified as “easy.”_

_True that,_ sighs York, chewing. _D,_ _when we get back to the motel I’m going to sleep for an entire fucking weekend._

_Today is a Tuesday, as a matter of fact._

York can’t help his chuckle or the grin that tugs on the corner of his mouth. _D, buddy,_ he says, _never change, all right?_

_I admit, I do not plan to._

_Good,_ says York. _I’d be fucking devastated if you did._

It’s hot, but pleasantly so, and York’s armor forms a protective shell around him, his visor shielding his vision from the brilliant sun. He’s got a burger in his hand, and D in his head, and all the bruises and strains of the past twenty-four hours are rapidly disappearing. He’ll have to get up soon, he knows, to walk back to the motel, and at some point he’ll have to start sniffing around for a job again, but… for now he’s content to simply sit on the sidewalk, watching the trio across the street argue about whatever it is.

After all, it’s about time he had a break.


End file.
